Magic  Revelations
by Paladin of Farore
Summary: When Camelot is attacked and Merlin is forced to step in to stop Morgause, his secret is revealed, and Uther condemns him to death. Now Arthur must decide, is his father right about magic? Is Merlin evil? Who will he stand by? Destiny is upon us.
1. The Siege

**Note: this story contains elements of series three, although I haven't seen it. I live in America, and the episodes haven't aired here yet. However I do know that Morgana is now a villain, and that she's aligned herself with Morgause. However far this may stray from canon, ultimately this story will focus on Merlin's secret being revealed, and the story of the show slowly beginning to follow Arthurian legend. This roughly takes place during series three after Morgana's been returned to Camelot, and is secretly plotting Uther's downfall.**

**LINEBREAK**

Bloodcurdling screams filled the capitol city of Camelot. Fire rained from the sky like falling stars, shattering the city's outer walls and setting the thatched rooms of homes ablaze. Women desperately called for their children. Children called for their mothers, and men scrambled to defend their families against the coming slaughter. Skeletal warriors shuffled menacingly through the streets, swinging swords and battleaxes in wide arc's, herding the citizens into the center of town in great mobs.

They'd appeared out of nowhere. The night patrol had returned to the city with dire news and death hot on their heels. Without sufficient time to seal off the city, the outer walls perimeter had been broken through. At once Arthur had ordered soldiers to defend the people and began to coordinate his defense.

Ancient traces of dirt and rust coated the undead soldier's armor and exposed bones, showing just how long they'd been interred beneath the earth. The soldiers did all they could to thin the undead numbers, but to no avail. Arrows fired from the walls simply bounced down the skeletons ribcages, and when a sword cut through their bodies, they simply got back up again. These enemies felt no pain, and possessed an unquenchable desire to kill and devour. Hell had arrived, and had stained the night sky red.

Unseen to the living a lone woman strode through a dark alleyway between burning shops. She was dressed in the finest armor and clothing and in her hand she held a meticulously crafted staff that hummed quietly as she walked. A wicked smile crossed her lips as the carnage unfolded before her. Morgause pulled up her hood to cover her face and drew her sword. The time had come for Camelot to fall, for the age of Uther's tyranny to end, and the age of magic to begin at last.

"Knights to me!" Arthur bellowed as he sprinted from the castle gates, sword in hand. Sir Leon followed close behind him. Terror was clear on both their faces, and even the determination of seasoned knights did little to lift their spirits. Red caped knights exited the fray of battle and went at once to their commander's side. Wounds were visible on their arms and chests, trickles of blood flowing from their mouths.

"Shields at the ready!" the crown prince said to them, raising his own royal crest bearing shield. They obeyed at once, and together formed a wall of steel on the road to the castle.

The invaders had yet to breach the castle walls, and the knights would make sure they never did, at any cost. The king and his ward were safely inside, and they had to be protected. Arthur gave the signal, and the shield wall moved forward. The knights inserted their weapons between the shields in preparation to skewer their foes. At first this tactic worked and Camelot's finest warriors held the skeletons at bay. But soon the plan began to backfire. The enemies they'd seemingly destroyed began to pull themselves back up, and along with the oncoming hordes began to surround Arthur's battalion.

Spinning around the knights switched from a wall to a circle. Skeletons viciously beat at the shields with the butts of their weapons. The thin metal started to crumple and cave in, and within minutes the knights were left exposed and their ranks began to fall. Streams of blood spurted from the necks of the fallen as the fanged teeth of the undead gnawed at their necks.

"Retreat!" Arthur roared. "Retreat!" Immediately the surrounding knights shoved and flailed their arms desperately. Arthur successfully cut the legs off the skeletons nearest to him and made his escape. With a swing of his sword Arthur created an exit point, sending a skeleton with only its face, chest, and a single arm remaining. The force of the blow was so great that the remaining bones were sent flying back, shattering on impact with the ground. He and the surviving knights leapt over bodies and scattered masonry and made their way to the castle gates.

Fortunately for them, skeletons were slow, and they had ample time to open the gates and take refuge inside. Slumping against the wooden gate, Arthur gritted his teeth and pulled and removed his battered shoulder guard. A bloody gash lay beneath. It pained him to move his left side, but he had to go on. A momentary silence fell, broken only by horrible screams and the clang of metal.

Outside the enemy had reached the gates and had begun to beat on them like war drums.

"To the throne room," Arthur said climbing to his feet. "Rally at the throne room, the king must be protected." He led the way across the courtyard and ordered his knights to gather whatever they could to build a barricade. As a result a flimsy structure formed from old furniture and wine barrels was placed before the castle's inner doors. Hastily they ran through the castle and came to the throne room, whose doors were in the process of being barred tight.

Inside the room was already filled to bursting with servants and the civilians who'd managed to escape there. Gaius could be seen moving a long the walls tending the injuries of solders assisted by Gwen. And in the back of the room King Uther Pendragon was preparing for battle. The knights broke away from their leader and spread around the room to help in anyway they could.

"Arthur!" he said spotting his son. He hurried to his heir's side, and pulled him into a brief embrace. "Thank God you're alive," he said in relief. However relief quickly left him. "They've broken through haven't they?" Arthur nodded.

"Yes Father. We did all we could, but the enemy seems to be nearly unkillable. Each time we destroy them, they simply rise again. All pieces of their bodies must be smashed for them to stay down. The gates have been barred, but they'll break through soon. Our last stand must be made here." Uther nodded. He summoned a nearby soldier who stumbled forward on an injured leg which was wrapped in bloody bandages.

"Go to Lady Morgana's chambers and bring her here at once. All ways into this chamber must be sealed, which I will not allow to happen without her inside." The soldier gave a halfhearted bow, leaning on his spear for support.

"Yes, sire," he turned and hobbled out of the room through the small door behind the throne.

"Prepare all able bodied men for battle," Uther said to Arthur, who nodded obediently. The king looked around the room, shook his head, and moved to finish donning his own battle dress. Arthur turned in the opposite direction and moved towards the wall, and kneeled beside Gwen who was dabbing at a soldier's forehead with a damp cloth. When she saw him the tiniest of smiles twitched at her lips. He returned the gesture, though his stony expression soon returned.

"How are they?" he asked. He glanced at the masses of wounded that crowded that side of the chamber. Gwen grimaced.

"Not well. No matter what we do we just can't stop the bleeding. I doubt many will live through the night, and those who do will never be able to lift a sword again." Solemnly he nodded. His hand went to her shoulder.

"How are you, Guinevere?" The maidservant turned away from her work to face him fully. His baby blue eyes were full of emotions that royalty was taught to suppress on the surface. Pink blush appeared on her cheeks. Only she ever saw him vulnerable and open. To the rest of the world his feelings were sealed away, but to her his truest self was always clear.

"I'm fine I suppose," she whispered. Her eyes fell upon his open wound. "Oh, let me get that for you." She turned to get the roll of cloth gauze at her side, but he squeezed her shoulder firmly and pulled her back. Their eyes locked, and the prince pushed forward, pressing his lips to hers.

As much as she enjoyed the kiss, panic filled her. All around them were on lookers, who could clearly see that the Prince was kissing a maid. But it seemed that those who noticed took no heed for the moment. They were too distracted by the situation at hand. And Uther was conversing with Sir Leon, his back turned. Arthur pulled away.

"It's now or never," he said with a loving smile. "If I'm about to die, I may as well kiss the one I love first." For a time they just looked at each other. It didn't last long. "Have you seen Merlin?" he asked breaking the romantic trance. He looked around for his manservant. "Last I saw him he was mucking out the stables for me. Did he get inside?"

"I-I don't know," said Gwen. If it was possible she looked even more worried than before. "I didn't see him. What if he's still out there-"

"Don't worry," Arthur said. "Merlin may not be able to fight or do anything useful, but knowing him he'll slip out of danger somehow. He always does." He stood up and with one last squeeze of Gwen's shoulder and kiss on her cheek, he left her. With all his heart he hoped for his friend's safety, but it was impossible. His comforting words had been to convince himself more than Gwen. Merlin was probably dead. Using a piece of his breeches he covered his bloodied shoulder. It would have to do for the time being. Morgana entered the hall dressed in her night clothes, helping to support the limping soldier's weight. She set him down against a nearby pillar.

"What's happening?" she said approaching her foster brother.

"We've been invaded. Undead soldiers, it has to be a necromancer, and a powerful one." Whatever else he had to say was lost amid an enormous boom that shook the castle. People screamed all eyes turned to the doors. They'd broken through. "Get back!" he dragged Morgana to the back of the room beside the throne and called the men to arms. The servants helped to drag the wounded back, and the remaining soldiers and knights lined up shoulder to shoulder with the King and Prince.

"Be ready," said Uther. He was now garbed in the same chainmail as the knights. The sword felt heavy and unfamiliar in his hands. Years of inactivity had taken their toll on the once great warrior's fighting abilities. Stepping forward, he addressed them. "We must stop them here and now. It is probable that we will die here, and I must know. Do I have your loyalty; will you fight and die beside your king?"

"Yes sire!" they said as one, flourishing their weapons. The sounds of footsteps grew louder and louder. The entire room took a sharp breath. Suddenly the doors blew open. Flying off their hinges the doors ploughed their way through the soldier's flanks and flattened them against the walls. A group of a dozen skeletons hobbled into the room. The human warriors raised their weapons but no attack came. Instead the skeletons filed into the room and made way for a lone figure that entered silently, and with an aristocratic aura about her. She lowered her hood and Arthur's eyes widened at the sight of her face.

"Morgause…" The sorceress smirked. Arthur charged with the intent to kill. Morgause clicked her staff on the ground and her attacker froze mid motion.

"Courageous Prince Arthur, oh how the mighty fall in the face of magic. This is Camelot's end, and there's naught you can do to stop it, Uther. " Her gaze locked venomously with the kings. With a wave of her hand she sent her next spell flying. A loud snap crackled in the soldiers faces, and they all fell limply to the ground, leaving the king alone.

"You will not win, sorcerer!" he spat. The blonde haired women smirked, tilting her head to the side amusedly.

"I already have. _Ibn X'ufishis!" _her eyes flashed gold and together father and son were lifted into the air. Arthur was flung aside, and Uther soared across the room where Morgause pinned him telekinetically to his throne.

"_Arthur_" a horrified shout filled the room. Biting back ragged gasps of pain, Arthur looked up to see a simply dressed man jog into the room. It was Merlin. Morgause turned away from the helpless king who sat rigid in his throne. All eyes watched as her face was filled with…_confusion? _He ran to his master's side and checked his wounds.

"You again?" she blinked. "Why does a servant boy such you seem to believe he can do anything to stop me? I saw you on the way in, swinging at my skeletons with a broken walking stick." Merlin let out a cocky laugh, his face smug.

"What are you doing?" Arthur choked from the ground. Did the idiot have a _wish_ to die? It seemed so as Merlin got up and faced the sorceress eye to eye, ignoring Arthur's question. "Merlin, she'll kill you! Run away!" Genuine fear filled the prince. Though he would never admit it aloud, Merlin was the cloest thing he had to a friend.

"It doesnt matter." His posture tensed and his voice grew dark. "Leave this place, Morgause. End the enchantment. I'm warning you, I don't want to hurt you, but I will not let you destroy Camelot, nor will I let you hurt Arthur. Leave now and I'll spare your life." Arthur gaped up at his servant and tried to get up, sending waves of pain down his abdomen. It seemed that his bumbling service had lost what few brains he possessed and had gone completely insane. Morgause seemed to be thinking the same thing, as she nearly fell over with laugher.

"You'll let _me_ live?" she cackled. "A worthless servant is going to stop me? I grow tired of this, boy, it's time to die! _Hithun aglias!_" Energy crackled from the tip of her staff, heading straight for Merlin. Arthur closed his eyes, he didn't want to watch.

"_Glathin!"_ an orb of translucent white light formed around the manservant, his eyes ablaze. Morgause looked shocked, and then she looked entertained.

"So, it seems for all this time you've been employing a sorcerer as you son's servant, Uther," she sneered at the king. Arthur stared his jaw on the ground.

"End the enchantment, Morgause," Merlin repeated, this time with far more conviction

"So you have magic, no matter. More than a few household magic tricks are needed to stop me." Another energy ball streaked towards Merlin and bounced harmlessly off his shield. He clapped his hands and the shield dispersed.

"Do you know whom I am?" Merlin grinned, his confidence growing. "My name is Merlin, but the druids have another name for me. Emrys." An eerie silence followed, and Morgause blinked, then blinked again. Regaining her composure she let out a snort.

"Emrys? Emrys is said to be the greatest and most powerful sorcerer that will ever live. You're no Emrys, you're just a servant with a few petty illusions." Merlin sighed.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I must." Gold filled his eyes, which grew feral. He took a step forward, thrusting his hands forward. Clusters of light burst from his fingertips. These Morgause deflected with a twirl of her staff. Momentarily gold left Merlin's eyes, leaving him rocking on the balls of his feat in a fighting stance.

"Simple bolts of energy, the simplest of all attack magic. I was casting such magic whilst still in the cradle. Emrys is a demigod among sorcerers, boy. You are not him."

"I am Morgause, make no mistake."

Gold filled his eyes once more. Merlin craned his neck backward and let out a roar that no human being could possibly make. Fire escaped his lips and began to swirl around the room. The tongues of flame took the shape of a dragon large enough to take up the entire chamber. Morgause watched in awe as the wrath of a dragon lord was unleashed. The air around her seemed to tremble.

"LEAVE!" Merlin screamed, his voice shaking the room and knocking Morgause to her feet. The dragon snapped at her. She raised her staff as she ran, chanting a string of low and incomprehensible incantations. The staff slammed into the ground, and with a crack Morgause disappeared and the skeletons fell to the ground into harmless piles of dusty bones. The dragon faded, and Merlin fell to his knees in exhaustion.

"Seize him!" bellowed the released Uther. A pair of soldiers descended on the manservant and on the kings orders dragged him away. Arthur watched silently. Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin had saved them all. And Merlin was about to be put to death. Never in his entire life had the prince felt more lost and conflicted.


	2. Questions

In the days that followed Morgause's siege, all Arthur could do was wander the castle aimlessly and stare blankly at the walls of his chambers, deep in thought.

The clearing of the streets and burying of the dead were going well. The remnants of the skeletons weapons and armor had been packed into the smithy where they'd be melted down and reused, and the deceased had been laid to rest in a new cemetery just outside the city gates. There was much to be done in Camelot, the people need reassuring, the city walls needed rebuilding, but the prince just didn't have the heart to do anything.

A mixture of rage of confusion, despair and rage coursed through ever fiber of his being. How hadn't he seen that Merlin, his manservant, his friend, was a sorcerer? Looking back, it was so, so obvious. How many times had his life been threatened by mythological beasts, ancient evils and dark magicians, and miraculously he'd emerged unscathed?

More than he could count.

Each of these occurrences had a single thing in common with each other, Merlin. Every time the day had been saved Merlin had been there to congratulate his master on a job well done, bearing a goofy grin and kind expression.

This confused Arthur the most. Was Merlin the mastermind behind the attacks? No, he decided. That wasn't possible. There were kittens with more evil in their hearts. No, Merlin had been saving his life. But why? In his heart of hearts Arthur hoped that this proved his father wrong, that magic could in fact be harnessed for good. But the more he reflected on it, the less sense it made.

There was no reason for a sorcerer to protect him, or Camelot. Uther had slaughtered his kind by the thousands. Logically, Merlin should have left him to be killed, or if necessary, end the kings life himself. Yet the night of the siege he had used magic to defend him, and had openly declared that he would let no harm come to him.

And what was this 'Emrys' prophecy that had startled Morgause? Did sorcery give someone a second name? Whatever it was, it had to be something gravely serious if it had frightened a someone so mighty.

Arthur shook his head and rubbed his temple furiously. The facts he had could only form an endless cycle of contradictions. Rising from his chair Arthur swept from his chambers. Determination defined his features. He had to know why, so he'd simply ask Merlin himself. Being condemned to die anyway, there weren't many reasons for him to divulge any information at all, but Arthur was a master of interrogation, and he would get what he wanted.

The corridors were empty as he swiftly made his way towards the dungeons. Most if not all of the guards were off duty; out with their families scavenging the bits of their lives that hadn't been crushed and burnt to cinders. Farmers would have a tough growing season this year, Morgause's unholy army had torn fields to shreds, decimating the tiny cottages of those who tended them. Shops would have to be restored along with dozens of homes. It was a time of reconstruction for the entire kingdom, one the people would have to endure together if they were to survive.

If magic can be used to bring death and destruction, Arthur thought, could it be used to do the opposite, to bring life and restoration?

Within a few minutes he was descending the narrow spiral staircase that led to the castle dungeons. Dust layered the ceiling and walls. Masses of spider webs were tucked away in the corners. Hardly anyone ever traversed these dank passageways apart from guards and prisoners, so it was hardly ever cleaned. Uther preferred it that way. The damned had no need for cleanliness. At the entrance to the cell in the back stood two armed guards, faces illuminated by the flickering torch that hung on the wall, and the scarce amount of sun rays that ebbed through the barred windows.

"Sire," they addressed him with a salute.

"Let me in, I need to speak with the prisoner." Their faces hardened a bit. One of them nodded, and slipped a large copper key into its hole and pulled the heavy oaken door open. Arthur thanked he stepped inside the doorframe. He looked over his shoulder. "Alone," he clarified. "I can handle this."

The guards stepped back, having intended to accompany the prince. With a deadly, deadly warlock, you couldn't be too careful. Once he stepped inside, he stood before Merlin. The servant was chained to the back wall and sat on a large pile of dirt encrusted straw. His clothes were disheveled, and he was looking thin and tired. Their eyes locked for a moment, blue on blue.

"Arthur…" Merlin whispered.

"Why?" Arthur asked. "Why did you do it?"

"Why did I do what? I've done so much recently I don't know what you mean."

"Everything!" Arthur flared angrily. His hands tightened into fists. "Why did you start practicing sorcery? Why did you save my life? Why did you keep saving my life, when you could have let me die more than a dozen times? Why haven't you killed my father? Am I just some tool to you? WHY!" his voice reverberated off the walls and lingered for a solid ten seconds. Merlin's eyes widened at the outburst. Arthur panted, his entire body shaking. "Why?" he asked one last time. Silence followed.

"I didn't choose to be a sorcerer, Arthur, it's something I was born into. I had no more say in it than you had in being a prince. All my life I've had magic. When I was small I use to accidentally set fire to my mother's skirt by blinking, send objects flying just by moving my arm, I had no control…."

He paused momentarily. For two years he'd awaited this moment, rehearsed it, prepared for it. Now it was all impromptu. "And I've protected you because it's my destiny to do so." Arthur arched an eyebrow. His trembling ceased.

"Your destiny?" Merlin nodded. He tugged at the chains that bound him and reposition himself on the ground. Circlets of blood could be seen on his wrists where the clunky manacles had left their mark.

"When I first came to Camelot, I heard a voice inside my head, I followed it below the castle, and I met the dragon." Arthur's eyes narrowed at the mention of the great beast. "He told me my destiny, your destiny, our destiny. You're going to be a great king one day, Arthur, it's your fate to unite all of Albion, and it's mine to help you and keep you safe."

"The dragon told you this, and you believed it?" Arthur snarled, his voice growing harsh.

"He hasn't been wrong yet," said Merlin. "Dragons are incredibly powerful creatures of magic; the future was his second sight. Half of what he told me was cryptic prophecies. I'm not evil, Arthur." The last bit he added in desperation. Pleading fill his eyes. "I believe in that future, Arthur. Together we can achieve it. I would die before I would betray you."

"You've betrayed me already though, haven't you? You say that you are not evil, yet look what magic has done in the hands of Morgause, look at all the pains it's wrought!"

"I'm not Morgause, Arthur," Merlin replied calmly, surprising himself at how well he stood up to his masters furry. "Magic is only as evil as the hand that wields it. They'll never be a day when I use my gifts for evil; by the Gods I swear it. Especially against you, Arthur, you're my friend." The prince's face softened slightly. Was it really as simple as that, friendship? Did Merlin's motivation truly come from something that pure rather than from diabolical ambitions Uther assumed all those who practice magic possessed?

"How many times have you saved my life?" Merlin gave his trademark grin.

"I stopped counting a long time ago, it's just part of the routine."

"I…I need to think about this." Arthur turned away and walked to the door. Now he knew Merlin's truest motives. His father's views on magic were wrong, they had to be. He looked back. "Merlin?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to speak to my father. Although I may not understand everything about it, I'm grateful for all you've done fore me, and I'm honored to call you my friend. Hell will freeze over before I let my father burn you." Leaving the room, he didn't see Merlin's eyes well up with tears of joy. So he still had his friend.

**LINEBREAK**

Later that evening Merlin was awoken by the sound of hurried footsteps. With a light groan he sat up and brushed the bits of wet straw that clung to his hair and face. The remnants of his pathetic supper, moldy stale bread and a rancid soup lay on a tin tray beside him. Those on death row weren't fed very much. Craning his neck he could just barely see the guard's helmeted heads through the tiny square window in the door on the other side of the room.

"Milady, what are you-"

"_Nadsat Nana bobi!" _said a soft venomous voice. Pale green mist filled the dungeon antechamber, traces of it slipping into Merlin's cell. Dulls thuds sounded as the guards hit the floor, unconscious. A click of a lock later the door swung open. Dressed as lavishly as usual, Morgana strutted inside. Her hatred filled glare was focused on Merlin. A smirk played at her perfect lips. Despite the pain it caused him, Merlin climbed to his feet to face her.

"You're a sorcerer," she said bluntly. It wasn't a question. She closed her eyes and clicked her tongue as if chastising a poorly behaved child. "So this is the mighty Emrys, poor and helpless in a cage. I'm rather disappointed. The druids spoke of Emrys like some kind of messiah, who lead our people to their prosperity, but all I see is a pathetic excuse for a man, a traitor to his own kind." Merlin shook his head sadly.

"You don't understand."

"Don't I?" she retorted. "All this time you had magic, all this time you could have helped me and yet you didn't. And for what, to defend a genocidal maniac? Morgause and I were this close to achieving victory, and ending his tyranny once and for all. It's a wonder you managed to overpower my sister with so little training, even with your prophesized godly power. , so little skill, we could crush you like an insect for what you've done."

"What I've done?" Merlin shot back furiously. "All I've done is use my gifts for good. I always meant to tell you Morgana, I wanted to help you." Morgana scoffed, waving aside any of his attempts at apologizing with disgust.

"I don't need your excuses."

"It doesn't have to be this way, Morgana," he insisted. "I know this isn't you Morgana, Morgause has twisted you somehow, I know it. Does all your loyalty truly belong to her?"

"Of course, her cause is righteous, and she is my kin."

"'Righteous'? What's righteous about bringing death to everyone who ever loved you? To Gwen, to Arthur, your brother, to your father?"

"Uther is not my father!" she exploded, rounding on him and clawing at his cheek, her nails leaving behind three red trails of blood. "My father was Gorlois! He was a good and noble man, and he loved me!"

"Uther loves you too," Merlin said wincing in pain. "He'd do anything for you Morgana." She shook her head disdainfully. None of the hatred in her posture had left, her heart hadn't even begun to soften. Her soul had been painted black.

"The moment he discovers what I am he'd have me put to death just like you. No, death is all he deserves from me, not love, not loyalty." For one last moment she examined the wound she'd left on his face, then with a flourish of her cloak she swept back towards the door. "You're pesky, Merlin, but after tomorrow I wont have to deal with you. My lovely _father_ will do it for me. Escaping this cell would be easy, but you'd never escape the city. Goodbye, Merlin, have a nice death." She left the room, and the young sorcerer slumped back against the wall in defeat. Escape was the least of his worries, he already had a solution ready for that, but he'd have to wait until his execution tomorrow to implement it.

Sadness filled him and tears poured silently down his face. He'd lost Morgana, and Kilgharrah's words spoken more than a year ago echoed through his mind. "_The ancient prophecies speak of an alliance of Mordred and Morgana, united in evil." _It was coming true. He couldn't stop it.

**LINEBREAK**

Miles away from Camelot Morgause walked leisurely through the lush gardens of Cenred castle.

Flowers of every variety bloomed in great bunches, birds chirped happily in the wind, and the rhythmic sounds of the ornate marble fountain that stood at the garden's center gave off a wistful sense of peace. The armored sorceress thought it rather ironic. While his gardens were beautiful beyond description, King Cenred himself was a dark and loathsome man who would sooner trample a litter of newborn pups than willing give in to another's will.

With her she carried the staff of Nimueh, the high priestess of the old religion, and the woman who had raised and taught her. Being the tool that had allowed her to raise her undead army, and channel her powers for incredibly potent effects, it commanded a large amount of respect amongst the magic users of Albion. Morgause was a goddess amongst them, the one who would deliver them from bondage, and gain retribution for the atrocities committed against them.

"Amazing, isn't it?" the king asked her.

She turned to see him approaching, gazing in faux wonder at his surroundings. His outward appearance gave no indication of his true nature.

In fact, Morgause thought him quite attractive with a thick mane of black hair, charismatic eyes and a smile that could melt the heart of any woman. Pity, she thought. If it were Cenred's kingdom I sought to conquer than perhaps I would take him as a consort. His queen is nothing more than an empty headed womb with legs. I would produce a far worthier heir.

But alas it was not to be, and thus Morgause put on her most alluring smile. Seducing the minds of those she needed to manipulate was her greatest skill, even more so than her magical talents.

"Indeed it is," she agreed. "Never have I seen a garden so wonderful. Though I suppose it's only proper for someone such as you."

With these carefully compliment laced words she put her most recent plans into action. Besieging Camelot with an army of the dead may not have worked, but surely an army of the living, combined with the dozen or so groups of sorcerers who desired an end to Uther would surely succeed. That was the obvious scheme. However plans far more complex than a simple invasion swirled through Morgause's mind.

The king turned to her, lips pursed. Gleaming twin swords hung loosely from his hips. Cenred's left hand wandered lazily to one of their leather hilts.

"Drop the flattery, witch. I know perfectly well what it is you seek of me." Morgause cocked her head to the side and her eyebrows raised the length of her forehead.

"Do you?"

"You seek an alliance. I've heard of your attack on Uther's city. My scouts report that you had the entire capitol overflowing with un-living monsters. They say the city was ready to fall, and yet Uther survives. Your army crumbled to dust, and you yourself fled from the city. Tell me, witch. Why should I align myself with someone who retreats when victory was in their grasp?" Her false smile disappeared. A far more sinister expression took its place.

"Understand this, Cenred. Inside Camelot castle is a being with more power than you or I could ever imagine. With a wave of his hand your kingdom would be brought to its knees. Emrys is his name, and he is foretold to be the most powerful magical being to ever be born. I had no choice but to escape his wrath and lift my enchantment." Cenred snorted dismissively, letting go of his sword.

"Do not attempt to sway me with fairytales. No number of folk stories can hide your weakness. And to the point, if not even you could overpower him, how do you suppose my armies would be able?"

"I don't," Morgause said curtly. "In fact, Emrys will not be a factor much longer. Uther's arrested him and ordered his execution. By midday today he will be dead." Cenred looked puzzled.

"If this all powerful sorcerer of yours is doomed to die, why even mention him? Did you think I'd find it impressive that Uther killed one of your enemies while you ran away like a scared little child?" Deep anger slowly formed in his face. He was starting to believe his time was being wasted.

"Because, my friend," Morgause said calmly. "Emrys is _no longer_ a threat. When he is dead there will be no one left to defend Camelot from magic. Together with your armies, my magicians can take the kingdom by storm."

"Now, now," Cenred said neutrally his interest finally piqued, though he wasn't without restraint. "Explain to me why I should help _you _to conquer Camelot? All the kings of Albion harbor some degree of hatred for Uther, and a desire for his land. In short, my dear witch, what's in it for me?"

"Camelot is yours," she replied. "All I seek is the freedom of my people, and Uther's head on a pike."

"Then I suppose we can negotiate," Cenred grinned maliciously. He turned and moved towards the gardens exit. "Follow me, we will speak to my generals, they will be yours to command, so long as Camelot is taken in my name." Stalking behind him, Morgause let herself give the smallest of chuckles, cackling in her mind. The pieces were falling into place.

"_It's working, sister,"_ she thought telepathically.

"_Wonderful, and Merlin will be dead within the hour," _Morgana spoke into her head.

**LINEBREAK**

Arthur paced the length of his chambers with his eyes to the floor and hands folded neatly behind his back. Beside the window Gwen sat quietly. Red puffiness temporarily marred her pristine olive colored cheeks, the remnants of tears drying in the valley between her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Predictably she'd taken the news of Merlin's execution rather hard. The order had been made more than a week ago, yet it was only now, a mere hour away from the horrible event, that she'd allowed herself to cry. Merlin was her friend, sorcerer or not. Nothing the servant boy had done in his life merited death.

The idea that he was evil never once crossed her mind. When Merlin's eyes had glowed gold, and he'd summoned the fiery dragon, all her doubts and latent prejudices about magic wash away instantly. If someone as kind, compassionate and innocent looking as Merlin could be considered evil, then the definitions of right and wrong had been severely warped from the way Gwen interpreted them. Her deepest wish at the moment was to fully understand just what had happened over the past two years. How exactly had Merlin saved the day all those times? Of course when this was all over, and if they managed to save him, she and her royal lover would force him to explain, after a slap to the face and a quick beating.

They could accept that he was magical, but he'd still lied to them, and for that he'd earned to be roughed up a bit.

Hours had passed since Arthur had futilely pled with his father for Merlin's life.

And now the pair of them struggled to think of any way that their friend's life could be saved without the kings consent. It was impossible for Arthur to physically free him. Since that morning extra guards had been posted at Merlin's cell to make sure the prince didn't interfere. Usually the two of them would use their alone time to support their forbidden romance, stolen kisses and fleeting embraces. Tension was far too high for that.

"Can't he just use magic to free himself?" Arthur had suggested early on.

"He probably could," Gwen conceded. "But the guards would notice and I don't think Merlin would be willing to fight back and risk hurting anyone. It's against his nature." With a sigh Arthur nodded. They had no idea to do. Their minds stunted by hundreds of question, each new suggestion seemed more and feebler than the last.

"Does Gaius know anything?" Gwen asked breaking the silence. "He must have something of Merlin's, a book of spells, something he can disguise himself with." Arthur shook his head grimly.

"I already asked him. He has a book of Merlin's but it would be impossible to get it to him in his cell. On top of that, he wouldn't have enough time to learn a new spell before he's killed." Silence fell once again. Both of them absolutely hated this.

Suddenly a strong burst of wind blew through the window whirling the scarlet curtains and shaking the glass panes in their frames. Gwen stood up and she and Arthur watched in awe as the wind began to spiral inward to the center of the room. The table was thrown aside and the Prince's wardrobe was wrenched open.

"What's going on?" Arthur shouted. He lunged across the room and retrieved his sword ready to fight. However the wind continued to accelerate, spinning in a circle faster and faster, forming a thick grayish fog that distorted their vision. Then all at once the wind stopped and out of the spiral stepped a spectral figure.

"Hello, Arthur Pendragon," said a familiar child like voice. Arthur gasped as the fog subsided. Before them stood the druid boy Mordred who Arthur had helped to save. However he looked as though he wasn't really _there._ He didn't look solid. His body looked transparent and colorless, like a ghosts. What remained the same however were his pale blue eyes, which were filled with more pain and anguish than any child his age should ever experience.

"You!" Arthur gaped. Mordred smiled tightly.

"Yes, me. Forgive me for my appearance, but for obvious reasons I am unable to physically come to you. This is my astral form, my mental projection. I have a message for you," he glanced at Gwen. "Both of you I suppose."

"A message? What kind of message could you possibly have for me?" Arthur asked bewilderedly.

"Do not fear for Emrys' life, I suppose he's Merlin to you. He has both the power and the resources to free himself. Do not interfere. Any action you took would only provoke Uther's hand further and bring death to more of my kind."

"Why are you telling me this?" Arthur asked. "I'm grateful, but what is Merlin to you, that you would wish to see him saved?" Mordred's face became dark and fierce.

"Know this, Pendragon. I have no wish to save Emrys' life. I consider him to be a traitor to his kind; betrayal is not something I can forgive. However I am bound my religion to help him. Despite my feud with him, he saved my life. For this reason I owe him a debt, which now can be considered repaid. Emrys would give his life for you, don't waste this gift." The ghostly figure seemed to turn and to someone Arthur and Gwen couldn't see, and said in a hushed tone.

"I've done what you asked Kilgharrah, now leave me be. You'd must be going, if you're going to get their in time, you can't shrug off Emrys' will much longer." Then Mordred disappeared, the wind subsided. Neither of the two remaining in the room understood that at all. Who was Kilgharrah?

Off in the distance bells began to ring. Arthur's heart sank. It was time.


	3. Eggs and Escapes

Okay guys, this is where the plot starts to get thicker. Hope you guys like it, and decide to stick with it. Keep up with the reviews!

LINEBREAK

Lancelot wiped the excess sweat from his brow, arching his neck back and allowed the scant breeze to cut across his cheekbones. The sun beat down on him, and the heat continued to grow inside his tightly knitted suit of armor. He rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet. Occasionally he turned to look the group he'd been hired to protect.

They were a scraggily bunch of men, limber on their feet but not substantial in terms of muscle. For hours now they'd chipped away at a particularly stubborn patch of rocks at the bottom of a deep valley lined with jagged remnants of a long forgotten structure and thorny bramble patches. And for hours Lancelot and the three other mercenaries who'd been hired to protect them had done nothing but lay about with nothing to do. The workman had made plenty of process, having built a suitable tunnel into the sublevels of the ruins, for which they were now preparing supports to prevent cave ins. Early on in the digging the team had discovered an old and weathered trap door with cryptic writing carved into the woodwork.

Not that Lancelot had anything against an easy payment; he just had hoped for something of a challenge for once, something that would make him worthy of knighthood. Yes, since that day more long ago when he'd battled the griffin, not once had he encountered a mythical beast that needed slaying, nor a village in peril. There was no need of a knight for hire, only swords for hire. Those with money seldom hired people based on their righteousness, but rather on their skill with a blade alone, regardless of the morals that drove it.

For months now Lancelot had nothing but wander aimlessly through the countryside, taking what work he could where he could. He never stayed in one place long, for whenever he stayed put for more than a week anxious thoughts dug their way back into his mind. What he sought was a purpose, a purpose that he had no idea where to begin searching for. He'd yet to prove himself knight-worthy. He was far too adventurous for simple farm life, and his romantic escapades had ultimately proved futile.

Pain always found him when he thought of Guinevere. Thinking of her in the arms of the prince made his blood boil. Despite his own feelings, he would be happy for them, regardless of the fact that he didn't want to be. Wistful dreams of a future filled with laughter love and children plagued his sleep, incessantly preventing him from redirecting his thoughts elsewhere. Fate had determined that Gwen was to be queen, in his heart he knew this, and he had no right to interfere.

Usually he helped farmers with various chores, fixing a stable roof, mending a fence, in exchange for a hot meal and place for the night. But recently he'd been pulled into the wondrous world of mercenary work. A group of shady looking men had pulled him aside one evening in a pub and offered him a hefty sack of gold and silver pieces in exchange for guarding their operations. Hesitantly he'd accepted. Obviously the men were sorcerers, and brass pentagrams hung loosely around their throats, not did they seem to be the most trustworthy blokes. With beady rat-like eyes that twitched nervously. However Lancelot took the deal. Money was hard to come by, and this was enough to live off for an entire year. Never had he imagined himself doing such work as supposed to daring heroics, but it would have to do for the time being.

Strictly speaking magic wasn't outlawed in that region of Albion, though it was still frowned upon. Rumors of satanic rituals performed in the forest had spread like wild fire from the mouths of cynical old men, to the ears of gossipy house wives, and on to the ears of easily frightened children, who now feared being used as an unholy sacrifice to some barbaric pagan god or devil. Though Lancelot had nothing against magic, as long as it was used for good, he couldn't help but be intrigued. What possible use could warlocks have for armed protection or hired help to excavate the earth for them? Didn't magic eliminate the need for physical labor?

"The site is surrounded by the remains of an ancient temple constructed entirely out of welkynd stone," one of the warlocks explained as he led them through the woods, stopping a good three hundred yards from their destination. "No creature of magic can penetrate it's perimeter, which is why we've requisitioned you." And thus the warlocks had set up their shelters and sent the men off to work. From dawn till dusk they worked each day, yet never once did the warlocks specify what it was they sought amongst the dusty rubble. This alone bothered Lancelot. Was he helping these strangers to acquire

a dangerous weapon of some sort?

"Oi, Lancelot!" yelled Marik, breaking him out of his distracted haze. "Break time, let's eat!" Although he was a short young man, Marik had rather heated temper which didn't coincide healthily with his infuriating sense of humor. One always had to be sure to laugh at the pathetic couplets he tried to pass off as jokes. For the last four nights all the other men had to be sure to check their bedrolls before each use, lest they be impaled by the half dozen pins interlaced within the wool. Taking up his sword and the half empty water skin he'd brought with him, Lancelot followed his comrade back to camp.

Beside the warlock's tent burned a spluttering campfire around which men sat comfortably on forgotten logs and roasting their food to perfection. Grouse and white spotted rabbits were plentiful. Inside the tent their employers could be heard conversing incoherently and scratching away with their feather quills, no doubt frantically translating the characters from the trap door. Accepting a clay bowl of food, Lancelot sat.

"How much work you reckon you have left, boys? Tunnel looks like it's coming along nicely," said Marik through a mouthful of meat.

"Not much," answered Mavros, the eldest and least spritely worker. "Supports are all finished. No cave in 'll happen now. Now we can think of what to do about the trapdoor. Gentlemen, any ideas?'

"Well have you tried opening it yet?" Lancelot asked. Several other men nodded theirs head dimly in agreement. Mavros rolled his eyes derisively.

"Of course I have you bunch of dunderheads. I've tried everything I can think of, bashing it, pulling on it, but nothing." Suggestions buzzed around the fire. But then they realized that no sound came when they spoke. Hoods covering their faces, the three mages approached them. Leading them was a tall and slender men with a bushy grey beard that fell to his waist, his hand was raised and strange lights glittered between his fingers. Only he among the magicians had given his name, Uldren.

"Your suggestions are not required," he said silkily. "We have translated the door's encryption and have prepared what is necessary." Lancelot felt his sword being pulled from its scabbard by invisible hands and watched as it flew into Uldren's open palm. From his robe he withdrew a glass vial of bottle green liquid. With utmost care he poured the bottles contents over the swords sharpened edge. Sunlight reflected off it's polished surface, creating strange rays of multicolored light. "There," Uldren said returning the sword.

"W-what did you do?" Lancelot jolted, his voice returning.

"I've enchanted it. Just one blow to the trap door and the way forward will be cleared."

"You will go alone," another of the mages said noticing the workmen rising to their feet in excitement. "The door is warded, only one man my pass."

"Are you sure he's the wise choice?" Uldren asked his associates telepathically.

"Indeed," they answered together. "He is the finest warrior among them, Lady Morgause will have the egg within a week."

LINEBREAK

Uther Pendragon had always had murder in his heart. Even when he was a small boy some bestial urge in the back of his soul screamed for blood. Of course these urges weren't conscious, and not even the king could see them at first. All it had taken to rile the beast was the death of the lovely queen Ygraine. In that moment something within Uther had snapped. Every last bit of hatred anger and pain he could muster exploded forth in a tyrannical wave of death and despair. Fixating on magic and it's practitioners, he spread genocide across the land. Amongst the cries and weeps of a ravaged people, the king's dark side was pleased, it's insatiable thirst somewhat quenched.

Gaius the physician could feel the monster rise up in joy as he left his chambers and walked at a snails pace towards town square. Hundreds had been burnt there, their lives snuffed away by a man with not a shred of compassion for those he condemned. Evil and magic were synonymous to him. Not so long ago Gaius himself had nearly been killed and now his nephew would as well. He felt no fear for Merlin's life. The boy had more than enough power to free himself as long as he was out in the open and not below ground in the dungeons. No, what he feared for was Camelot. Dark forces were surely at work here, and it was inevitable that war would be waged between Uther and the revolutionaries who craved his head on a silver plate.

In the center of the square was gathered a massive pile of tinder. A guard carried with him a jar of oil, another carried a lit torch. Chattering masses of civilians assembled. Some were rowdy and joyous at the thoughts of a good ol' witch burning. Yet others seemed far more concerned about the fate of Merlin.

Amongst the crowd Arthur stood with Gwen at his side. His fingers twitched madly like tiny crabs, his heart rate was erratic . Mordred's reassurance did nothing to calm his nerves. Was he honestly supposed to just stand there and do nothing and let Merlin hand it? Sure, he'd obviously handled himself well before, probably more than the prince knew but still. What if Mordred were wrong though?

Then everything Merlin had done would do unpaid. Mentally Arthur had come up with a list of all the times he'd saved his life, and by extension the entire kingdom. Valiant's shield, the knights of Medhir, the questing beast, it was pointless to count. One day he would demand a full written list, but for now all he could do was watch.

"I can't take this," Gwen whispered in his ear.

"I know," he whispered back. "But it's all we can do."

"How can he possibly escape? The entire square is surrounded! Will he fly out?" the question hung in midair. Can Merlin fly? Arthur thought. It had never crossed his mind before. Surely sorcerers had created ways to fly. But if they had why had he never seen them do so in any of his countless battles against them?

"Perhaps, it makes sense."

The trumpets sounded and the balcony doors high above opened. Uther, eyes sharp as a flint stepped into view. Morgana followed close behind him. Her face was devoid of expression and emotion. She's hiding her grief, Gwen thought. Her mistress was a very good actress.

"Bring forth the one called Merlin!" Uther said loudly, his voice full of authority. Several seconds passed before two guards entered the square dragging Merlin between them. Arthur and Gwen watched helplessly as their friend was placed amongst the now oil soaked wood. Merlin looked to them, and winked.

"You have been found guilty of the crime of sorcery, and for this your punishment is death. Have you any last words, sorcerer?" he spat the last word like poison.

"Yes actually," Merlin said brightly. To the surprise of everyone he was grinning, a rather optimistic approach to one's imminent end. Looking up into the king's steely gray eyes, Merlin's face hardened, and his voice grew stronger. "I forgive you, sire. Countless amounts of my people's blood has been spilt by your hands, but I forgive you. No man can truly be tainted to the core, all of us carry at least some good. I just hope that before your end comes you can find it."

"Enough of this," Uther screeched furiously. "Burn him!"

The guard set fire to the pyre. Merlin bowed his head. Flames started to lick their way up the wood, melting away the papery bark. Deep within his mind Merlin was screaming. Cries for help echoed through the bonds of his soul, and a surge of hot energy poured through his body. Just like on the night of the siege he threw his head back. Eyes a feral gold, he roared to the sky, and a another roar answered. A great twisting whirlwind filled the square. The lightest of the people were launched several feet off the ground, and a massive shadow eclipsed the sun. The flames were siphoned upward, and disappeared completely.

"Hello, Uther. It's been such a long time," spoke the Great Dragon Kilgharrah. Shock didn't come to close to describing the looks on the people faces. Uther stared, wide eyed, terrified. The dragon chuckled harshly.

"You-you're dead…." Uther stammered. "Arthur killed you!" Speaking of Arthur, he'd just about fainted at the sight of the magical creature. He'd dealt the mortal blow! How was it possible?

"I'm very much alive, Uther. Do not be afraid. As much as I'd love to kill you right now, my will isn't quite my own." Lowering his neck, he allowed Merlin to scamper onto his back and use the sharp spines on his head to sever his bonds. With a single wing beat they lifted into the air. "Good day Uther, today will be one of the last you'll have."

As they soared into the sky, Merlin gave a little wave to Arthur, who was still dumbfounded. Sadly he gazed at Morgana, who had stood up, looking just as amazed as the others, though with a hint of anger. Merlin closed his eyes and buried his face in Kilgharrah's scales. Now he would have to explain how the dragon was alive, how he was the last Dragonlord, and about a dozen other loose ends he'd forgotten to tie up.

"That was a rather interesting speech," the dragon told him. "Forgiveness is an odd thing to give, to those who deserve none."

"Be quiet and fly," said Merlin. He pinched the bridged of his nose. "I need to think."

"Well your thoughts will have to wait for the moment, for now is the time I must ask a favor of you."

"What could you possibly want from me?" Merlin asked incredulously. "You're free, what cant you do?"

"I have overheard bits and pieces of Morgause's plans telepathically. Naturally she seeks to conquer Camelot."

"This bothers you? I thought you'd want to help her if you could." The dragon nodded midflight.

"Indeed I would. But you see her plans necessitate a ritual that requires the sacrifice of something very special to me, something I have only recently discovered even existed. Merlin, she seeks to find the last dragon egg, and destroy it for her own gain."


	4. Onward

High above the clouds Kilgharrah was having quite the conversation. Not with Merlin, no, the passenger on his back was left entirely out of the loop, much to the young warlock's dismay. He could sense the telepathy running through the dragons mind. He could hear the voices answering his questions and posing their own, though he couldn't distinguish anything about them other than the simple fact that they were there.

Not a single word was audible, and each time he demanded to know what was going on, he was bucked a few feet into the air by a jerky wave of the dragon's scaly back. Merlin even tried forcing a response by dominating his mind, but to no avail. Seemingly impenetrable, the dragons mind would remain closed.

A low chuckle gurgled in the back of Kilgharrah's throat.

"What do you find amusing, Ancient one?" asked the high infantile voice of the dragon who had yet to be hatched. Its voice was unfavorably curious. This was to be expected. After all it's mind had only awoken days ago, and had found itself alone and forgotten beneath of mile of forgotten masonry, kept isolated and protected by the lingering wards left by the Dragonlords. Had Kilgharrah not hijacked the natural telepathic link that bound fledgling dragons to their mother's, the unborn would have gone mad with loneliness and never seen the light of day.

"Nothing young one, nothing."

"Are you coming to find me?" the little dragon almost pleaded.

"I cannot young one. The moment I am seen in the sky those who seek your blood will surely smash your shell to pieces and snuff out your life before it has even begun." The little dragon whimpered. "No matter," Kilgharrah continued. "Someone else is coming in my stead. He is a knight of utmost courage and skill. It is he who shall protect you until your birth, after which you shall receive your name, and come under my tutelage, and learn the ways of our kind. Sleep now." Beneath their crusted lids a pair of amber eye's burned gold, sending a calming aura over the fledgling, wafting it to dreamless sleep.

"It's doubtful your plan will unfold so simply, old friend," said a new voice. "Surely you know that the hatchling is also under my protection."

"Of course, old friend, now my plan will become so unbearably complicated that I'll have no hope of completing it." This seemed to amuse the source of the new voice very much.

"Come now, Kilgharrah, my involvement alone is not what complicates things. Rather, it is the fates, playing an elaborate divine prank on us. Is the boy with you? Have you told him anything?"

"Yes I have him. It quite the narrows rescue, from the clutches of Uther himself. And no, I've told him nothing. As we speak he's trying to break into this link. It's quite a feat you've accomplished, undermining a Dragonlords dominance over my kind, allowing us to speak freely. Shall I send the boy to you?"

"Heaven's no," replied the voice. "I've got far too much on my hands at the moment. Send him North. He will need the allegiance of the Druid, some of them at least. Other's would be far less useful, being swayed by their nihilistic view of the world and their own roles in it."

"Are you still bitter over Mordred? His fate has always led to the darkness. Destiny cannot be altered; you of all people should know that."

"Oh I know it. However that does that mean that I must like it. For a thousand years I've wandered this world, flickering back and forth between the veil that divides the physical and astral planes. Wherever I go destiny always follows. I have seen the face of God, seen and been part of his plans, and still had to stand aside and let history takes it's course, watch Chosen One after Chosen one fulfill his destiny just the way I know he will.. Yes, the fates always spin their threads towards good, but why is that the most innocent, those with the most potential for good who must always be seduced by greed and hate and vengeance? Mordred is such a soul. Not a day goes by that I do not regret failing to save him…" The man trailed off for a moment. Soon he regained his composure, and his voice took on it's earlier cheery and optimistic tone. "Send him North, he will find what he needs there. Good luck, Kilgharrah, old friend."

"Good luck to you as well, Pilgrim. Are you quite sure that is what you wish to call yourself? It seems rather….comical, like something thrown together at the last moment before starting out on a quest worthy of the tales of old."

"Well of course it's thrown together at the last moment. Have I ever done things any differently?"

Pilgrim's voice trailed away and the mental connection broke completely.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Merlin asked angrily over the wind that pelted him in the face. "Do you want me to help you save your dragon egg or not? I can't do a thing about it if you don't tell me anything!"

"My apologies, Merlin" said the dragon. "I simply had a few things to attend to." He flexed his wings and they dipped down below the clouds. Gliding through the wispy pockets of cloud that hung low in the sky the pair came to rest in a meadow on the low foothills near the northern border of Camelot. Merlin slid off the dragons back into the knee length grass. Kilgharrah let out a long breath, steam pluming from his nostrils like grayish serpents. He folded his wings up tightly and curled his body comfortable in the flowerbeds. Patiently Merlin waited, surprising even himself. Usually patience wasn't one of his greatest virtues.

Mind blowing mysteries constantly came in and out of his life, and it was always easiest to deal with them when he knew as much as he could. However his informants were sometimes quite unhelpful, speaking only in vague riddles and longwinded stories that didn't seem to go anywhere useful.

"Alright," said the dragon. "Explanations. As I've already told you, Morgause has located the last dragon egg, which had been hidden from mortal eyes for the last thirty years. With it she hopes to perform a ritual that will summon an army of being beyond this world, demons, from the depths of the abyss." Merlin stared. Demons? Mystical creatures he could accept, magic and immortality, but demons? Had theology suddenly become bound up with magic, something it usually scorned as blasphemous?

"Demons?" he asked. The dragon nodded solemnly.

"Indeed."

"Why are you trying to stop it though?" Merlin asked. "You want to see Uther dead just as much as Morgause, more so perhaps. I would have thought you'd be off helping her."

"Under normal circumstances I would," the dragon agreed. "However the ritual she seeks to invoke is magic of the darkest sort and it requires a sacrifice of blood, dragons blood. The sorcerers under her command are far too cowardly to seek my blood, which they would never be able to obtain, so instead they opted to seek out the egg." His face darkened and grew more serious than Merlin had ever seen it. \

"I will not let any harm come to that egg, Merlin. My last breath would be given willingly if I could see it hatched. This is why I need you. The egg itself is safe for the time being, someone trustworthy is on his way to discovering it, and an old friend of mine will provide him with what he needs to guard it for the time being. You however, must take a much different path. Morgause's call is being heard by all the magical peoples of Albion. Persuade them otherwise, persuade them to follow you. A new chapter of your story is beginning Merlin, your skills must be honed, and allegiances must be made. It is only when her forces have been substantially weakened that I will be able to get to the egg myself, without my very presence provoking her men to smash it on the spot."

"Get them to follow me?" Merlin asked incredulously. It seemed ridiculous. Why would anyone swear an oath of allegiance to him? "I'm no leader."

"The druids will bend to the will of the once called Emyrs," said the dragon. "To them you are the one who will lead them to prosperity. Learn from them Merlin, fulfill your destiny. Do not fret over your strained relationship with Arthur. In time he will come to understand fully, and will come to meet you on the battlefield. Good luck, Merlin"

LINEBREAK

Lancelot crawled on his belly through the tunnel. In his hand he held a flickering torch; in the other he held his newly enchanted sword. The weapon made it difficult to crawl without the steel blade getting hung up on low hanging stalactites. It was slow work. Huffing and groaning, gritting his teeth together, the warrior lowered his head and upped his speed.

Cool drops of water trickled from the ceiling, wetting his already sweaty forehead. His armor scraped harshly against the ground, creating noise that tore at his eardrums like razors. This didn't bother him too much though. After receiving his payment, not only would he be able to afford repairing his chainmail, but a shiny new suit as well. Once the elevation fell a few feet his head smacked directly into the trapdoor.

Dull pain permeated through his skull. Shaking away the dizziness, Lancelot looked up and took the opportunity to examine the door himself. Around the circumference were inscribed ancient and arcane symbols that no doubt derived from languages long since forgotten. Green light permeated from the characters, the same light that glowed from his sword. Lancelot placed the tip of his sword against the wood and pushed. For a moment the glowing intensified. Then the trapdoor deteriorated into a pile of sawdust. Rust covered the once flawless blade, before it too faded into nothingness, leaving behind a perfectly round porthole.

"Magic is odd," he muttered aloud. "Do magicians come up with this all themselves, or does magic do it for them?" On the other side he found himself in a crudely carved chamber. None of the walls were straight. In fact very little work seemed to have been done there at all.

The only constructs that were man made were a stone staircase on the far side of the chamber and a single torch bracket crudely attached to one of the uneven walls. Lancelot got to his feet, dusted himself off and placed his torch on the wall. The instant he did the entire room was filled with bright light, magnified by some unseen magical force.

Easily he traversed the steps, three at a time. At first glance the staircase seemed to only lead down to a lower level some ten feet beneath the earth. On second glance however, it became clear that it lead much deeper. For quarter of an hour he descended, before leveling out onto a smooth even ground. Now he stood in a smaller chamber, similar to the first. But differently than the first, it held a gargantuan nest built out of mounds and mounds of fine timber. Rotted straw was strewn about the limbs, and in the center of it all laid a huge stone. At least it appeared to be a stone. Obsidian black and ovular shaped, it appeared to be made entirely of marble.

Heat emanated from it, and on occasion it twitched slightly.

"An egg?" Lancelot thought aloud. Was this what he was meant to find? He approached the nest and pulled himself into it. Stretching out his arms his fingers came into contact with the egg. A voice sounded inside his head.

"Are you the one who's going to protect me?" it asked.

Fingers molded to the jet black stone as if they were glued there by a powerful adhesive, Lancelot stared blankly. On his skin the stone felt smooth and scaly. A faint light seemed to burn within it, spreading calming warmth into his hand, through his veins and into his heart.

"Are you the one who's to protect me?" the voice chimed through his thoughts. It sounded sleepy, as if it had only just woken from a deep serene sleep. "The ancient one said you would come." Lancelot continued to stare. His heart began to pump faster; his body began to shake, stirring the gathered bramble of the nest on which he was sprawled.

What in the world was this? Of course it had to be the object his employers were after, but what use would sorcerers have for a talking stone, even one that spoke directly into your mind? During his youth he'd heard countless tales from the bards and minstrels that wandered past his village; tales of fair maidens, shining knights and epic quests, but none of talking rocks.

"I'm not a rock," the voice giggled. "I'm a dragon; at least I will be once I hatch." Hatch? Lancelot thought. So this was a dragon egg. But that was impossible; it was common knowledge that dragons had been driven to extinction twenty years ago.

"We're not gone, I'm right here," said the dragon. "The Great one and I are all that's left."

"A-are you reading my mind?" Lancelot asked nervously.

"Well of course. How else would I speak to you, I haven't even been born yet!" Another giggle. "I may as well get to know you; the Great one says we'll be spending a lot of time together when you're protecting me from the sorcerers above." Protect? Lancelot thought. Why would he have to protect it? What would mages do to harm a dragon egg? He assumed that magic folks would want to help magical creatures like dragons, seeing as they too had nearly been eradicated in the great purge. And who was 'The Great one'?

"Why would I need to protect you?" he asked, though it was probable the egg had already read his thoughts.

"Because the sorcerers want me for…something, I do not know what. The Great one did not tell me."

"Who is 'The Great one'?"

"The Great Dragon, the oldest and most powerful of our race, he's lived for thousands of years, and knows many things. He told me you were coming. You see, with my mother dead, he spoke through the parental bond that links all us newborns to our parents. He wanted to keep me company, to let me know I wasn't alone….do you feel that?"

Lancelot did feel it, a strange sensation that began in his stomach and made its way tingling through the rest of his body, like tiny flames heating a copper pot above a campfire. However before he could reply a beam of light formed between him and the egg.

Tendrils of blue snaked their way around his body. They spun around the egg, ensnaring it like a spider would its prey. Together they were lifted from the nest. They hovered in mid air, the light continuing to coil around them like a mystical serpent, and then they were softly lowered down.

"W-we'd better go," said the unborn dragon in a haunted, trembling voice that matched the way Lancelot felt, shaken to the core. "We have a long way to travel."

"What just happened?" Lancelot nearly shrieked through his quivering lips.

"We've been bonded," the dragon said tiredly. "Go now; I have to….to sleep…The Pilgrim will show you the way." The voice trailed off and was soon replaced by the sound of soft snoring. Lancelot blinked. The egg shook in his hands. It had fallen asleep. How? Had the energy that 'bonded' them drain its energy in some way? Unsure of what had happened or what to do, he tucked the egg under his arm, stepped down from the nest, and tore from the chamber.

He scurried up the tunnel like a rat being pursued by a particularly vicious cat. Nothing made sense at all. What did it all mean? Talking eggs flashes of light, references to being of great wisdom and power that he'd never heard of. Was this the will of some higher magical being, the will of God? It had to be, or else Lancelot was trapped in some hysterical dream.

When he emerged from the tunnel the midday sun nearly blinded him. The smoke of the distant campfire could be seen spiraling upward through the trees. Returning there was unwise. If there was any truth to what the pre-hatchling had told him, all that awaited him at camp was an ambush. Turning on his heel, he dashed in the opposite direction. On that side of the ruins the forest was much denser, and every other step he was forced to leap over gnarled, hook-like roots. Mighty oak trees marked his path. At a steady pace, reaching the edge of the forest would take only a few hours on foot.

From there he would disappear. Surely he would find answers to his questions somewhere in Albion. And if not, perhaps he would sail south and make his way across the European mainland. Italy was known for its Grand universities and deep studies on mythical creatures. There all could be revealed, but for now escape was all he could accomplish. One brief moment he stopped and tore a patch of cloth from his breeches to form a makeshift carrying sling for his unborn passenger. Stumbling out onto the dirt path, Lancelot broke out into a full sprint.

Long hours of training had tempered endurance finer than any blade. Hours of running would only drain the smallest fraction of his energy reserves. Suddenly the sound of approaching hooves filled his ears. Glancing over his shoulder, he quickened his paced. Behind him cantered a snow white mare, ridden by one of the cloaked mages, his former employer.

"Ho there lad, where are you going?" the mage called. Lancelot did not answer. He simply sped up, only to run headlong into the horses flank. The mage had galloped ahead of him and dismounted his mount. Wildly Lancelot lunged forward with a punch. The mage caught his fist in a wrinkled hand. "I mean you no harm, lad," the mage said with a chuckle. He released the fist, lowered his hood, and cast off his cloak.

He was quite possibly the oldest man he'd ever seen. Wrinkled covered every piece of visible skin, and his beard fell to his knees, white as his horse.

"Who are you?" Lancelot demanded, taking a cautionary step back.

"Call me Pilgrim," the old man said. He turned to his horse and unfastened the heavy saddlebags, laying them across his own decrepit shoulders. "I assume the youngling told you I mean to help you," he pointed to the egg in the sling. "Climb aboard, she's all yours," he patted the worn leather saddle. Hesitantly, Lancelot mounted the horse with the intent to speed off and away. However when he clicked the reigns the animal moved not an inch.

"No need to run lad," said the Pilgrim. "I'm not like the others. I know the difference between right and wrong, and that it's not right to slaughter an innocent creature for the sake of blood rituals. Youi need a place to go, find Merlin, the Prince's servant boy, I believe you've met. Together you'll work to set things right in time. Off with you then, we've both got places to be. Quite the adventure, you're about to have, and I know you'll be telling it at the round table for years to come."

The Pilgrim slapped the horses rear. Any attempt on Lancelot's part to speak was washed away as the horse took off at incomprehensible speed.

His eyes rammed shut, but opened when a new sensation filled his belly. His jaw dropped. The horse had sprouted wings, and was steadily making its way up into the sky. Laughing, the Pilgrim turned down the path, reached into the saddlebag on his shoulder and pulled from it a tall pointed hat. No one has any fashion sense these days, he thought.

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Frantically Morgana dashed into her chambers, lifting her skirt as not to trip on it. She would have plenty of time before anyone wondered about her. Uther was far too busy raging around the war room. And Arthur was more than certainly arranging search parties at his father's behest, going off to search for the escaped sorcerer. Merlin. Just thinking the name made her seethe with anger, hate and malice. How he had managed to summon a dragon she did not know. But no matter, he may have escaped, but fleeing would get him nowhere.

She swept over to her armoire and sat on the three legged stool. Raising her gaze she looked into the pristine crystal mirror. For a moment she saw only her hard expression. Her eyes flashed gold and she muttered a quick incantation. The glass rippled like water, and melted away.

Morgause smiled back at her through her own mirror that stood in the center of a spacious stone chamber. Vials of brightly colored potions stood on a table, and shelves packed to bursting with thick books lined the walls.

"Wonderful to see you sis-"

"He escaped the execution," Morgana cut her off. Morgause's face darkened, her nostrils flared.

"How?" she demanded. Morgana recalled that mornings events, how he called down a beast that had supposedly been slain a year ago, and waited patiently for her sisters response. Turning in her seat Morgause called to her hand a particularly heavy book nearly twice the size of her own head.

"How exactly did he summon it?" she asked thumbing through the yellowed pages. "Did he use any particular spell?"

"No. All he did was roar and the dragon came. He seemed to be controlling it somehow; it looked as if it wanted to devour Uther alive, but was prevented."

"Ah," Morgause murmured snapping the book shut and sending it back to its place on the shelf. "Merlin is a Dragonlord. Uther wasn't able to wipe them all out then. Pity, we could have used someone with those particular talents."

"'Dragonlord?" Morgana inquired. It was a term she'd never heard before.

"A Dragonlord is a man gifted with the ability to control Dragons," she explained. "Their powers are passed from father to son at the time of the father's death, and in many ways are akin to those of sorcerers. According to ancient texts the souls of Dragons and Dragonlords are interwoven, brothers. During the great purge Uther tried to have them all killed because he thought their abilities to be far too similar to our own, apparently he failed. Do you have any idea where the dragon may have taken him?"

"He won't have gone home. That's the first place Uther will have searched." Morgana rubbed her chin thoughtfully. It was possible he'd taken refuge among the Druids. By nature the Druid people were accepting of all those who possessed magic. This was unlikely though. Mordred, who shared her loathing of the ex-manservant, would have contacted her the moment he arrived at the camp. Her only option was to flush him out into the open.

"Send a battalion or two to Ealdor, a small village at the edge of Cenred's kingdom. Burn it to the ground, kill everyone. That should have Merlin running to us in no time at all. Even one such as he could not deny the need to avenge the destruction of his home."

"It shall be done," said Morgause. She got to her feet, a poisonous smirk etched across her face, pleased by her sibling's new found vindictiveness. "I've taught you well little sister. Victory is to be attained at any at all costs." With a quick farewell, the two witches closed the connection between their mirrors. A knock sounded at her door.

"Enter." A scout of Cenred entered the room. He fell to one knee and lowered his gaze.

"The scroll you requested has been found, Milady," he said diplomatically, pulling from his belt a dusty papyrus scroll. Glee filled Morgause's eyes has she snatched it up telekinetically, calling it to her palm.

"Leave me," she dismissed the scout. At once he backed out of the room, fearful of the misfortunes that would plague him if he disobeyed. Lowering herself back into her seat, Morgause ran her nails across the aged paper. The scrolls was sealed with the emblem of three crossed leaves, one faded blue, one dark burgundy, one light evergreen, the symbol of the ancient Druids, the trinity of power, wisdom, and strength. Over the years the paper's coloring had turned from white, to yellow, and now to a ragged looking brown. She prodded the emblem with her middle finger.

"Claudo." The emblem kindled and burned away, allowing the sorceress to carefully unroll the papyrus. Barely legible on its surface were inscribed tightly looped words. They were written in Greek, but Nimueh had taught her ward many languages over the years, so she understood it perfectly.

From Pendragon witch and Pendragon Heir, the darkest of powers shall flare

From Witch's womb and Heir's seed, the Heir's demise will come indeed

"The prophecy has spoken," she whispered, tenting her fingers. Arthur Pendragon would sire a child, and that child would one day be his murderer.

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Okay, I wanted to put something about Merlin himself in this chapter, but this was the first subplot I needed to really get going. Next chapter will be Merlin centric, with a bit of Arthur thrown in as well. Any more guesses as to the identity of Pilgrim? A reviewer suggested he was Time Lord in origin, an interesting theory. Keep reading to find out.


	5. Pilgrim

The Pilgrim clucked his tongue and pulled the end of a hand carved pipe from his teeth. A fine misty smoke seethed from his mouth and poured from his nostrils. For a moment it hung around his face, before dissipating into nothingness. A cloudy gray void surrounded him. The ground on which he sat was actually not ground at all, but rather a smooth texture less plane on which to be.

Patches of fog drifted aimlessly, carrying with them the echoing voices of souls long passed. Off I the distance to one direction was a mass of faint golden light tinged with oranges and reds. Warm ribbons of every imaginable color streamed endlessly from, twisting and turning in all directions. The sight of it alone was enough to fill the Pilgrim's heart with joy. Goodness and love and life incarnate.

In the opposite direction was a hole. A jagged black tear in the face of existence. The fringed edges of ribbons stained black flailed silently from it, as if trying to claw their way back from realms that could never be escaped from once entered. Sadly the Pilgrim looked away. Souls were souls, and no matter how wicked they were it pained him to see them suffer. Setting aside his pipe he pulled back the oversized cuffs of his sleeves. Closing his eyes he held out both his hands, palms facing upward.

Two gleaming ribbons unfurled themselves from the golden contingent and wove themselves tightly around his fingers. The ends were folded neatly upon themselves, unbroken. Like countless others before them they had left behind their earthly anchors and rejoined the source of all.

"Why do you call back the dead, Pilgrim?" asked a kind heavenly voice. He looked up. Beside him had materialized the semisolid form of a woman clothed in reeds and the remnants of a torn maroon dress. Her eyes were serene and concerned.

"Because, Milady," he replied, turning back to the ribbons in his hands. "Arthur and Guinevere require council that I cannot give. Their deceased parents can."

"It that truly wise, to bring forth memories of pain, images of what could have been?"

"You tell me, Lady of the lake," the Pilgrim said slyly, "is it?"

"It is you, not I, who has lived for over sixteen hundred years. You tell me," the lady responded, folding her translucent arms beneath her breasts.

"I believe it is. Perhaps they can touch the emotions within them I cannot. Really, you should be resting milady. You will need all the strength you can muster for what is to come." Begrudgingly, the lady nodded. She turned away and crystalline tears began to leak down her face.

"Be steady Pilgrim. The power of Excalibur can only take the boy so far. He will need the will to use it first." And with that she faded away, becoming enfolded into the fog.

The Pilgrim took the ribbons in his hands and focused his magic on them. For a split second they grew warm in his hands, and left them. Before him now stood two ghostly figures. One a man, the other a woman. The man was tall, with olive colored skin and a kind face. His head was nearly devoid of hair, and his chestnut colored eyes twinkled. The woman however was nearly his stark opposite. Her skin was a pale creamy white, her eyes a lovely cyan blue, and her clothes indicated she was of royal stature.

"Welcome," The Pilgrim told them with a smile, rising to his feet. "Tom, Yrgraine, we have much to discuss."

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"Lancelot?" Merlin repeated. Having fallen from the sky, Lancelot staggered around the clearing in delirium, straining his neck around to look at who he'd fallen upon.

"Merlin?" he said before loosing his balance and tumbling backward into a batch of soft overgrown grass, clutching the bundle he carried protectively to his chest. At once Merlin was kneeling as his side.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Quickly he looked his friend over for injuries. Only minor scratches marred his skin, and luckily no bones had been broken. Apart from being a bit shaken, the young warrior was in excellent health.

"'M fine," Lancelot said in a daze, pressing his free hand to his forehead. For several whole minutes he remained still, allowing the dizziness to fade. Merlin waited anxiously. He ignored the dull aches he still felt from absorbing Lancelot's impact and helped him to his feet. Dusting himself of the fallen leaves and tufts of grass that clung to his tunic and breeches, he looked up at the patch of sky that could be seen through the trees.

Wisps of clouds formed elegant white ribbons across the midday blue of the sky.

"Damn horse," he muttered. "Nearly killed me…" he turned back to Merlin. "Well, I suppose old man was telling the truth, here you are."

"Horse? Old Man?" Merlin repeated blankly. Lancelot nodded.

"I was running from sorcerers, who wanted this," he lifted the egg for Merlin to see in its pouch. "One of them followed me on a horse, gave me the horse, told me to find you, and then the horse sprouted wings and carried me off!" Merlin's brows shot up his forehead skeptically. "Don't look at me like that! You're a sorcerer yourself!" Merlin shrugged. It was true, and a winged horse wasn't exactly odd compared to what he'd already seen, winged panthers who were actually cursed druid girls, stone knights brought to life, a chalice that could restore a life at the cost of another, the list went on and on.

"Why did he tell you to find me? How does he know me?" he asked.

"I don't know," Lancelot told him. "But it has something to do with this." He lifted the egg once more, and a small childlike voice chimed in both their minds.

"Hello Emyrs, milord," Merlin stared, realization washing over him. Only one kind of creature would refer to him like that, even if the only one he'd ever met before would prefer to die than to address him as nobility.

"That's a dragon egg, isn't it?" Lancelot nodded.

"The Pilgrim, that's what the old man called himself, told me you were to help me with it."

"So you're who Kilgharrah was talking about. He mentioned he'd arranged for someone to go find it," said Merlin. His eyes widened and a grin tugged at his lips.

"I'm not an it, thank you very much," the egg thought dryly. "I'm a her. I may not be born yet, but I'd still like at least some dignity." Both young men shifted awkwardly on their feet. Merlin's grin disappeared. Strangely enough neither of them had been told off by an egg before.

"Why are you so far from Camelot?" Lancelot asked, changing the subject. Eye's cast to the floor, Merlin recounted Morgause's siege and his near execution. Memories of that dreadful night still plagued him. Listening intently to his friends story, Lancelot felt his stomach tighten and his nerves tense. So the crown prince now knew of his manservant's secret, and the king's war against magic and its practitioners was as brutal and as unethical as ever. Part of him wondered if Uther still discriminated against those below his social class, though he immediately dismissed it. Of course he did.

"How did Arthur react?" He opted not to call the prince by his title. They were miles away from civilization, there was no point in showing more respect than he actually possessed for Camelot's heir. Guinevere may be his, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"He was angry at first, of course. But after a bit of explaining he calmed down a bit. Hell, he even offered to try and help me escape."

"How did you escape?" Lancelot asked curiously. "You didn't mention that. Did you outrun the guards, disintegrate the walls with magic?"

"The Great One freed him," the she-egg answered for her carrier. "He is the last of the Dragonlords, and the Great One had no choice but to answer his call."

"A 'Dragon Lord'?" Lancelot questioned.

"Yes," said a new voice. "A Dragon Lord." In that moment many thing happened at once. A silver tipped arrow flew downward from high in the trees. It missed Merlin's neck by inches, instead pinning him to the ground by the collar of his shirt. A wolf the size of a small cart horse leapt from nowhere and slammed Lancelot down beside his friend. Snarling the animal glared bloodily down at it's prey, daring it to provoke a killing blow. No less than a dozen figures crept from amongst the trees. All were garbed in a mixture of leather and fur armors, covered by green cloaks embroidered with the triple leaved symbol of the druids.

"Hello Emyrs. Are you who you're foretold to be? Or are you simply a false prophet?"

LINEBREAK

Arthur and his knights rode as a strong column. The bars of their helmets shielded their faces from the opposing breeze and the dulling light of the setting sun, their scarlet capes flapped behind them like banners in the wind. Morgana and Gwen galloped at the back, their mounts easily keeping the pace.

Mixed responses from the knights had resulted from the girl's presence. Some didn't seem to mind, while others were clearly bothered by the idea of a female going on a man's mission. But Morgana had simply smiled and repeated herself. "We're coming with you and that's final." No more was said of the matter. Knights had bravery, though not nearly enough to face the fiery wrath of the king's ward.

Arthur grunted, tugging on the reins sharply. The packed dirt road had begun to thin several miles back, and now it had disappeared into a crop of muddy grass at the forests edge. His gaze turned to forest. Ealdor did not connect to any of the major mapped roads. In order to reach the village they would have to make their own path through the wild.

"We camp here for the night!" he called over his shoulder. "I will not have us in the forest after nightfall. We begin again at dawn." At once his companions all dismounted and set about preparing for the evening. Sir's Gawain and Godric, the newest initiates, led the horses to a nearby pine and secured the leads to low hanging branches. Another pair of knights unfolded the light woolen bedrolls and another set about gathering firewood with a hatchet from the saddlebags.

"Sir Leon, you'll hunt with me," said Arthur as he removed his helmet and began to strip off his mail.

"Yes, Sire," Leon replied, removing his own helmet. The two of them pulled aside the largest of the groups saddlebags and withdrew from it a pair of stout short-bows and sheathed hunting knives. As they worked a thought that had spent the entirety of the afternoon gnawing at the back of his skull resurfaced among his conscious the prince's conscious thoughts.

Balinor had been Merlin's father. Merlin was not only a sorcerer, but a Dragonlord. In hindsight it made perfect sense. Why else would Merlin have been so upset at Balinor's demise? He had been forced to watch his long lost father die less than a day after meeting him. A mixture of guilt, and sadness tugged at Arthur's stomach.

Lurching forward into his work he strenuously pushed the thought away. Why was it that all thoughts of Merlin brought him nothing but despair, confusion and hopelessness as of late?

"Come, Gwen," said Morgana softly, dropping her own bag from her well dressed shoulders. "Let's prepare the tent, shall we?"

"Tent?" asked Arthur, puzzled. He looked up from checking the fletching on his arrows. "Why've you brought a tent? It's summer!"

"Ladies do need their privacy, Arthur," Morgana smiled coyly. Gwen gave her lover a playful smile. Women were something that would never be fully understandable to the male species, Arthur decided. Within several minutes the pair had erected a plain but sturdy cloth tent. There was no danger of rain that evening, so the leather tarp would be unnecessary. Gwen gathered their belonging and crawled through the small opening with her mistress close behind. The maid arranged the bedrolls neatly and placed the bags against the far end out of the way.

"Gwen?" said Morgana.

"Yes?" she turned to face her. Morgana raised her palm to the other girls face, smirking.

"Sleep." Lightning flashed across Guinevere's eyes, and she collapsed awkwardly across the bedrolls. Plucking a single hair from her servants head, Morgana pulled from the folds of her cloak a glass vial of disgustingly pale liquid.

"Be prepared, sister," Morgause reminded her telepathically. "The prophecy has spoken. Be prepared to do what must be done."

LINEBREAK

"Will you not speak Emyrs?" the unseen voice asked impatiently. "Does divine wisdom not flow through your mind and into your mouth; are you not the one whom prophecy foretold? Speak boy, or neither you nor your friend shall see the light of another day."

Fingers snapped, the Druid bowmen amongst the trees drew back their arrows. The light humming of tensing bowstrings rang in Merlin's ears. The gargantuan wolf who still pinned Lancelot to the ground let out a low snarl, its huge yellow eyes narrowed dangerously, hackles springing upward. Merlin tried to move, and the arrow that pinned him to a tree by the collar dug sharply into the flesh of his shoulder. A shrill scream escaped his mouth involuntarily. Blood trickled from the newly formed wound, staining the cloth of his tunic a deep maroon.

"Are you alright?" Lancelot called from the ground. This seemed to upset the wolf, which snapped its massive jaws closed inches from the young warrior's cheek, silencing him at once. Barely audible murmurs passed through the archer's ranks, and several of them parted to either side. From the shelter of the trees stepped a tall raven haired druid. He appeared to be in his middle years, perhaps the King's age, and the short tufted beard that shot out of from his chin was speckled with bits of iron gray. Like his subordinates he wore a cloak bearing the three leafed seal, worn with age and torn from battles long past.

A claymore hung loosely by a leather cord on his back, and his eyes matched those of the wolf's, yellow and large as saucers. Even with his pain Merlin couldn't help but stare. Never before had he seen such eyes, at least not on a man. For a moment the man stared at the scene before him, pensively, before opening his palm and twiddling his fingers in the air. His irises flashed gold. Once again the rough steel of the arrow dug into Merlin's skin, then wrenched itself free and twirled through the air to the man's waiting grasp. He snapped the straightened wood neatly in half. Merlin slumped against the tree, his hands flying at once to nurse his shoulder.

"Who are you?" he choked between the spasms of pain that chilled him to his marrow. The man's forehead creased.

"Who am I?" he repeated, confirming he was the source of the once unseen voice. "Who are you, Emyrs? Is that truly your name? We were told we were to find the one of prophecy along this trail, but instead we find nothing more than a couple of boys, one of whom carries an egg of a race thought all but extinguished. How peculiar…"

The wolf nudged the dragon egg in Lancelot's sling with its snout, nostrils twitching eagerly. "Magic burns brightly within you, I can sense it. But are you Emyrs, or merely another in a long line of false prophets?" What happened next happened so fast that Merlin had only a fraction of a second to react. The man leapt forward, his knees rising up to his chest. His feet slammed back to the ground, and his fists flew outward. "Agnis Marunil!"

Merlin dove to the side as columns of swirling flames erupted from the mans hands. The trees behind him ignited like parchment, serpentine coils of fire began to twist their way up the thick bark covered trunk. Sweltering heat now filled the clearing as well as red-orange aura that cast flickering shadows between the trees. Beads of sweat pooled on Merlin's chest and brow, leaking down his sleeves and into his still open wound. He winced in pain, stifling another agonized moan. The columns of flame suddenly withdrew into the mans hands and condensed themselves into fist sized spheres, which levitated above each of his upward facing palms. Crackling noises popped and sizzled from above.

Both he and Merlin glanced up to see the fire dance its way up tree limbs and engulf the once healthy leaves in a hot embrace. Below the archers did not seem perturbed by the notion of falling branches and their bows were still fixed on the young sorcerer.

"Fight back!" the man demanded, anger flaring across his stony face. "Prove to me who you are or die!" Again the man shoved his hands forward. This time Merlin was ready. He raised the hand not glued to his shoulder and bellowed in desperation.

"Glathin!" From his fingertips expanded a glassy dome of light that encased his entire body. On impact the fire columns split and broke away harmlessly to either side. Growling the druid man twisted his fingers, and the columns began to spin around Merlin's magical shield. From within the glassy dome Merlin grunted as the temperature of the air around him began to rise to unbearable levels. A scarlet glow seared across the dome's inner surface. It illuminated its occupants skin, making the web of blood filled veins in his skin clearly visible.

"Merlin!" Lancelot called. Vainly he attempted to brush aside the wolf with one arm while clinging to the egg with his other. Inside his mind the unborn dragoness babbled nonsensical panic.

"Fight back!" the man demanded once more. He took a step forward and the swirling flames intensified, turning from orange red to a bluish white. Merlin's thoughts melded together as the heat grew. His mind grew fuzzy and his vision slowly began to fade. No! he shouted in his mind. He could not allow himself to be killed this way, not with so many increasingly dark disasters looming on the horizon. Mustering all the strength his sagging muscles could bear, he straightened his posture. Eyes snapping open, both of his hands flew against the weakening shield. Thoughts clear, golden light flooded his eyes, and the shield shattered into thousands of glittering pieces.

As Merlin strode forward, twirling his arms, biting back pain, the flames cooled to their usual red colorings and shot straight up in thin rope like streams. They formed an orb like a miniature sun, spinning powerfully on it's axis. With a cutting motion of Merlin's hands it cracked down the center and collapsed in on itself, burning out of existence within seconds. A tiny small tugged at the druid man's lips. It didn't stay there long. Drawing his claymore he moved beside the still sprawled Lancelot. He clicked his tongue. Taking the warriors scruff in his many teethed jaws the beast dragged him aside into the trees among the bowman.

"I am called Verown. Perhaps you truly are Emyrs, but simply breaking my attack is not proof enough." Elegantly Verown flourished his oversized blade and took an offensive stance. Albeit hesitantly, Merlin shrugged into a similar stance. Having spent more than two years watching Arthur train, he'd picked up a few things about basic hand to hand combat. Very basic. Of course he had no real need to physically fight, but the stance served just as well for magical based combat.

"Why does it matter if I'm Emyrs, what do you want of me?"

"I want you to be Emyrs' Verown replied simply. "For all my life I have awaited your coming. Do not disappoint me." Claymore raised high above his head, he charged. Instinctively Merlin stepped forth to intercept the blown with a quick yet weak shield formed in the palm of his hand, a small buckler sized disc. Quickly Verown stepped forward, lashing at him with a flurry of upward slashes. Each Merlin hit aside with his buckler of light, step-hopping backward as he parried the blows.

Breath becoming ragged, he decided to turn the tables, go on the offensive. He dug his feet firmly into the ground and prepared himself as his foe lunged at him with a ferocious overhead pummel. It was likely that if it hit, his skull would shatter.

"Aerin!" Merlin swished his wrists and a melon sized glob of energy burst forth from his fingers. Verown groaned audibly as it crashed against his robed chest. He staggered backward, tightening his grip on the claymore's hilt. Regaining his footing, he rushed to resume the battle. Adrenaline coursing through his veins Merlin felt the tell tale power high that came with channeling large amount of magic. Basic energy attacks wouldn't be enough. What he needed was a big finish, something that would incapacitate the Druid without killing him. Either that, or something spectacular enough to make him back off. A spectacle was what Verown wanted, and he would get one.

Electricity ran rampant across his nerves and power filled him. Eyes lighting up, he let loose a tumultuous flow. Years later, Merlin would still be unsure what exactly it was he'd done. An orb large enough to fill the grand hall of Camelot frenzied around the clearing. It gave off a mad hissing as it spun, giving off showers of silvery sparks. Breaking rank the Druid archers ran in terror. Verown sprinted to a stand of thick trunked oaks. Trembling, Merlin watched as the orb began setting the unburned foliage alight, consuming all in its path.

"Stop it!" Verown roared. Fear flickered across his features and disappeared near instantly. "Control yourself boy!" Still shaking Merlin raised his hands. New sensations crawled their way across his skin as he took the orb in his telekinetic grip. Legs buckling beneath him, he crumpled to his knees.

"Down…down!" he muttered harshly to himself. Never before had he unleashed so much at once, nor had he ever tried to control something so vast. Trees began to collapse by the dozen as their supports were ripped from under them. The feeling of icy cold and boiling hot rushed as one into Merlin's heart. His hands withdrew to his chest, and as his eyes burned gold the orb disappeared, it's energy dissipating in silvery gray cloud. All strength left his body, and he collapsed face forward into the soft, slightly charred bed of leaves. An iron grip took hold of his neck. Verown lifted him up, beaming triumphantly. He gave a whistle, and the wolf left Lancelot and trotted to the mans side.

"Oh yes, the Weaver will want to see you, Emyrs. Perhaps she can teach you the control you require."

LINEBREAK

Arthur yawned tiredly as he lay against his saddlebag. The setting sun had given way to calming twilight. A crescent moon sat low in the star speckled sky, and rings of pinkish orange marked the ending of the suns descent into the horizon. Invisible threads of tension were woven around his psyche, pulled taught and ready to snap. Around him his knights slept slumped in heaps beside their belongings. The horses, still tied off lolled in place while sleeping, the few still awake nipping absently at tufts of grass.

"Some ale would be lovely about now," he murmured rubbing his temples. He'd foolishly volunteered for the first watch of the night. And so he was trapped with his vicious thought cycle, dozens of questions and about three answers, none of which made sense, Merlin was a sorcerer, Merlin was a Dragonlord, Merlin….well most of them concerned Merlin. He wondered whether other princes had to deal with such troubles because of their servants. Improbable, but perhaps other servants were secretly...gnomes, or something like that.

"Arthur?"

Twisting to look over his shoulder, Arthur saw Gwen emerge from the tent and his eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. From behind her came Morgana's low rhythmic snoring, which she swore she didn't do, though actually did quite consistently, nearly every night. Guinevere had changed since making camp. No longer was she dressed in a simple servant's dress with divided skirts for riding. She wore only an elegant silken nightgown, cut so that the majority of her olive colored skin showed. Arthur's heart grew heavy in his chest and it's beats increased ten fold. Before he could speak she was on top of him and her velvety lips pressed to his.

Conscious thought drifted away from his mind. His eyes closed and the entirety of his body gave in to passion. Guinevere's eyes burned gold and she smirked against his mouth. Hours from now the prince would believe this experience to be a fleeting dream consisting of fragmented images.

"The deed will soon be done, sister."


	6. Travels

When Verown and his convoy of archers forced their pair of captives into the Druid encampment at arrow point, Merlin was astonished at how normal it looked. At first glance it appeared to be no more than a simple village, similar to the hundreds that dotted Albion's countryside. Rough wooden huts spackled together with mud ran in rows alongside the trees that encircled the camp.

This arrangement made the entire settlement into a large box, squared away from the wilderness that surrounded it. Night had fallen, though the entirety of the square was clearly visible due to the dozen or so cook fires in the middle space of the square, their flames licking beating away the darkness as it came

Women moved about in a flurry preparing supper. They chopped freshly gathered herbs and vegetables, rotated the spitted boar and deer suspended over the fire, and scrubbed away at mountains of clay bowls still dirty from the midday meal. Children scurried at their heels, chasing one another in play, giggling with mad glee.

Every few moments one of them would cry out and their eyes lit up. Twigs were whisked from the ground telekinetically and flung at the other children's heels. However this was quite ineffectual and the young ones continued their game. This was one the few magical feats Merlin could see being performed. On occasion a woman would mutter an incantation to rekindle a fire or lift a heavy pot of stew.

A group of men were massed around a crudely drawn circle in the dirt. Within, a pair of young men, no more than halfway through their teens and stripped to their breeches, danced wildly with quarterstaffs twice the length of their bodies. The watching crowd cheered and howled, yelling both jeers and encouragement. Whether this bout was part of some wager or of combat training, neither Merlin nor Lancelot knew.

Whatever it was, it was brutal. Trails of maroon streaked down the combatants backs. Scars and bruises were evident on their pale bodies, and with each blow their grip on their weapons loosened just a tad.

"An initiation of a sort," Verown explained from Merlin's side. Still wearied from his nearly uncontrollable spell Merlin could barely stand and nearly toppled over every other step he took. Verown and his wolf companion had travelled shoulder to shoulder with him, supporting him along the way. The Druid warrior seemed to be undeterred by supporting the younger warlock's weight.

Despite having attacked him and nearly killing him, the older man positively glowed in the boy's presence. A new hopeful happiness filled his features. For the most part the trip from the clearing had been more like a leisurely walk with friends rather than a forced abduction. The wolf's luminescent yellow eyes darted constantly between Lancelot and the precious bundle he carried.

"In order for a boy to become a man, he must be strong with body as well as with the magical arts. For this reason they are trained since birth to fight without the use of their powers, so that if the need arises they will not require them to vanquish our enemies."

"Why are they fighting each other?" Lancelot asked. "Must they bludgeon their peers to death to prove their worth with a weapon?"

"Not necessarily," Verown said tugging absently at the single braid of his beard. "But when there are no enemies, they must prove themselves against their brothers."

"Ask him again where he's taking us," the dragoness egg spoke into her carriers mind. As a Dragonlord Merlin heard it as well, though he was hardly listening. After that spell, the gargantuan orb of light, every fiber of his being was fatigued to the point of near unconsciousness. His muscles were reduced to goop in his limbs and his eyes pulsed in their sockets and strained his retinas, shooting pain across his temples and brow. As the dragoness spoke however a strange sight befell his distorted vision.

A thread of golden light was wrapped around the egg, just inches from its shell. From there it shot upward and disappeared into the chest of Lancelot. He didn't appear to notice. I'm…I'm hallucinating Merlin thought to himself. He wasn't though and he knew it. It was some form of magic. One he'd never seen before. Simply looking at it made his skin tingle and his mind pulse warmth. Letting those thoughts fade he slumped back against Verown's shoulder.

"To the Weaver," Verown replied. It was the same answer he'd given numerous times on their journey there. It made no more sense the sixth time he'd said it than it had the first.

"Elaborate," Lancelot seethed, gritting his teeth together.

"All in good time." Verown whistled and the convoy came to a halt. With a wave of his hand the archers returned their weapons to their places on their backs and dispersed in all directions, some towards huts, others towards the increasingly mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat. "Come," Verown said. He pointed a thick bony finger towards the camp at a large tent pitched between two of the larger huts. Nearly every eye turned to them as they passed by. More specifically, the eyes turned to Merlin.

Children ceased their games and turned to stare. Awe glazed their tiny eyes. Men abandoned watching the dueling boys and women dropped pans and let the spits slow to a stop. None spoke. "They know who you are supposed to be Emrys," Verown whispered. "Only the Weaver can say if you'll disappoint them or not."

"Who is the 'Weaver'?" Merlin hissed. Although still unable to stand on his own his energy was beginning to return, at least enough to form a coherent sentence. "You keep saying that. Who is he? Give some answers or the moment I get my strength back I'll burn this place to the ground."

Verown chortled exasperatedly. It was an obvious bluff. No part of the warlock's appearance or his demeanor implied any sort of violent tendencies. He could never torch a village. Not even in retaliation.

"She will tell you herself who she is Emrys. She sees what other cannot. Be patient." He turned to Lancelot. "You may no longer be under guard, but that changes nothing. Do not attempt to put that ridiculous plan of burning into action. The Weaver will decide what to do with you."

The tent was unlike any either of the camps guests had ever seen before. Unlike other tents it was supported by no stakes. Instead it levitated in midair with its edges several inches of the ground. Its top was a dome, perfectly round and unwrinkled by the elements. Elegant patterns were stitched across the dark green fabric, of leaves and vines and trees, of the forest, the home of the Druid people for centuries.

"Mother Weaver, I have returned. I have found him." Merlin heard Verown's psychic proclamation, though Lancelot heard nothing. Merlin supposed either Verown had seen need for Lancelot to hear it, or Lancelot was simply incapable.

"Are we going in, or are we to stand around out here all evening?" he asked after a few moments.

"We are waiting for permission," said Verown. As if on cue a light cheery voice rang in their heads.

"Enter, Verown, Emrys, and Lancelot." The non magic using of the three of them nearly jumped out of his skin. He was only used to having one voice in his head, and that alone unnerved him enough by itself. Stepping forward Verown lifted the hovering flaps of the tent and motioned them inside.

Against the back lay a pile of fur cushions fashioned from the pelts of deer, bears, and other various beasts, some of which Merlin could not even name. Amongst them sat a small girl no older than six years old with a bright smile and eyes green like the sea. A yellow robe adorned her tiny frame. An owl with gleaming silver plumage sat perched on her shoulder.

"Welcome! I am the Weaver! Come, sit!" she exclaimed in delight. She waved her hand stacks of scrolls moved aside and were replaced by three plush cushions conjured out of thin air. Verown sat at once, his wolf friend padded to the weaver and plopped his shaggy head in her lap. But his human companions simply gaped wide eyed at the child.

"Y-you're a-" Merlin stammered, now fully alert, blinking wildly.

"A child?" the girl perked. "Oh I get that all the time. I'm actually well over a hundred years old." They continued to stare. This was the Weaver? The one who Verown had spoken almost worshipfully of, with such reverence? This little child?

"Please, sit," she insisted. Her smile did not falter. Slow, albeit reluctantly, the two of them sank onto the cushions. "I apologize if my appearance unnerved you," said the Weaver. "I'm actually well over a hundred years old, but eternal youth comes with the job. At times it gets rather bothersome. You'd be amazed how many people refuse to take me seriously." She turned to Verown. "They were where I said they would be? And it went alright?"

"Indeed Mother Weaver," Verown replied. As he spoke he bowed his head forward slightly in reverence.

"Alright?" said Lancelot. "You nearly killed us!" For the first time the Weavers innocent smile wavered.

"You attacked them? Did you truly see the need to force him to prove himself to you? I told you he was untrained." Her tone was steady and neutral and showed no signs of anger or negativity. The man's eyes went immediately to the ground, like a young boy being scolded by his parent. "I apologize on Verown's behalf Emrys. Since he was a boy he's dreamed of finding you. And ever since I told him his thread was tied to yours, he's been searching nonstop. "

"My thread?" Merlin asked. These Druids all seemed to know him, prophecies about him, and half worship him, and yet nothing had been explained to him. How was this little girl over a hundred years old? Why had they been brought here? What was going on? The Weaver read his mind. She giggled.

"Everything will make sense eventually Emrys. Not completely though, that will come much later. Yes, your thread. I am the Weaver. Threads are my work, these threads. life, destinies, and souls." She opened her petite pixy like hands with her palms facing upward. Her eyes became gold, and they remained a solid gold, glowing dimly. Unlike with other feats of magic the gold did not fade.

Between her fingers appeared several translucent cords of many colors. One of each of their ends trailed up towards the ceiling and disappeared.

The other ends however were attached to a person in the room, just above their hearts. To Verowns chest was attached a thread of burgundy. It splintered halfway to the ceiling, forming a third end that lead directly to the massive wolf. From Lancelot came a thread of deepest blue. Like Verown's it splintered halfway, branching off into a yellow one that encircled the egg like wisps of sun colored smoke.

The Weavers was a spring time green, with a gray sub thread attached to the owl still perched on her shoulder. All three of them swayed lazily in the air, swirling around the brightest of most distinct thread of all. Merlin's. Silvery white in color it gave off a mystical light unlike any other. Around it flew what appeared to be blood red scales. Dragon scales.

"You are both a Dragonlord and a focal point in destiny," the Weaver whispered. "Those tied to your fate are bound for glory and greatness." She guessed his next question. "Why do our threads tie us to animals and an egg? They are our Oberon, familiars. Their spirits are tied to our own. Separate flesh, connected souls. You have quite a nice caretaker, unborn one. Very few dragons have been bonded to men, apart from the Dragonlords."

"Thank you…" said the dragoness sheepishly.

"Though unlike the Dragonlords your bond is much more personal, between only the two of you, as supposed to the entire draconic race," she trailed off. "We have much to speak of Emrys. Morgause and her sister Morgana have people out searching for you. For you and this egg that is. Despite my best efforts to keep the issue quiet there are those in this camp that would join them in their plans to lay waste to Camelot. Know that you have me as an ally until the end of my days. Which is rather soon I think. Do not argue, Verown," she said to the now stricken looking Druid. "I will answer your questions, tomorrow Emyrs, and yours as well Lancelot. Now off to sleep with you. Plans cannot be made while half asleep. Until tomorrow my friends."

I know not a lot happened, but I have next chapter planned out. The dreams of Arthur and Guinevere. And don't worry, who exactly the Weaver is and how she's lived so long will be explained. AI think Merlin and Lancelot didn't talk enough here. Tell me what you think. Thanks!


	7. Lessons

It was midday when Arthur and company arrived in Ealdor.

The sun was a blazing high in the sky and the air was thick and hot in ones throat. The villagers were already set about their day of work, chopping wood, gathering the crops, hunting, and sewing. But visitors were a rare thing in such a remote place, and so even the most dedicated laborer glanced up from their business as the party of horses trotted onto a blank, cracked square of land they laughably called the town square.

Several of them abandoned their tools and walked to them, interested to see what had brought the Crown Prince of Camelot back to their dismal little abode. Snapping his reins Arthur called them to a halt. He dismounted and the knights as well as Morgana and Gwen followed suit. With a single turn of his head he took in the majority of the settlement.

For the most part it was the same as it was during his last visit. Dark mud colored shacks of wood so old and damaged by the rain and termites that it looked ready to fall at the slightest breeze. Uneven rows of various crops intermingled with tall grasses the length of swords. Piles of freshly split wood lay in intervals around a stand of oak of trees, axes leaned beside them. All the signs of poverty and depravity were evident, and it made Arthur sick to his stomach with nauseating guilt. This was where his servant had grown up in squalor and scarcity while he, royalty, had been presented with ever superfluous luxury imaginable. It was such a humble place to be born for one spoken of in prophecy, one so powerful even the likes of Morgause feared him.

"My lord!" From the approaching crowd came an aging woman in a colorless dress. Flower streaked her worn apron. She bobbed a curtsy and looked up timidly. This was Hunnith, Merlin's mother and the person who they'd come to see. Lines marred her soft kindly face, evidence of a life of tireless stress and hard work. Her eyes darted between the knights and their horses. "Where is Merlin, did he not come with you?"

"He isn't here then?" Morgana said stepping to her foster brother's side. "Hardly unexpected, only a fool would flee to his own home and bring pursuers with them."

"Has something happened?" Hunnith asked, face paling milky white.

"He was discovered," said Arthur. "Camelot was besieged by a dark witch. Merlin stepped in, he used his magic to save us all….and yet my father still condemned him."

"Don't worry, he's still alive," Gwen said seeing the look of horror struck panic that flashed across the elder woman's features. "He escaped the execution."

"On the back of a dragon no less," said Morgana. Recognition was clear in Hunnith's eyes at once.

"What's this lot want then?" barked a gravelly voice. The crowd had reached them by now, and from amongst them hobbled a graying old man stooped over with age. Dirt caked his knobby knees and in his spindly fingers he held a short hoe covered in bits of displaced earth. "Harvest's hard enough to bring in without the youngin's following the first outsider to waltz into town this mornin', and now this. What do you want? Come on out with it!" Arthur was taken aback. Only Merlin had ever spoken so boldly with him, and that was his playful taunting and banter. Murmurs of irritated agreement spread through the crowd. Agitated looking men and woman wielding various farming armaments seemed entirely unperturbed at the idea of assaulting royalty and trained warriors.

"Let them be Griot," Hunnith growled. She turned and gestured for the three of them to follow. "Please, come with me." Morgana and Gwen at once trailed after her towards the flimsy structure that was her home. Arthur looked to Sir Leon, almost desperately.

"Help them with their harvest, Leon. I have questions, and I'd rather not be interrupted by a mob of angry peasants." Sir Leon nodded grimly and called to the rest of the knights to pick up a tool and get to work.

Inside Hunnith's rickety home the Prince found the three women gathered in the far corner filled with various pieces of half-finished knitting.

"You know about Merlin's magic?" said Hunnith the moment the slatted door swung shut behind him. "You are not angry with him?"

"We're plenty angry with him," said Morgana. "But we don't hold it against him for hiding it from us. We'll just have to give him a good beating later."

"He's a Dragonlord as well. Balinor was his father, wasn't he?" asked Arthur, pushing the conversation towards what he'd been waiting the entirety of the journey there for, answers. Hunnith hesitated for a moment before replying.

"So Merlin's inherited his powers…..he's dead then?" Arthur nodded grimly.

"I was there when it happened, Cenred's men. I believe he and Merlin had discovered who each other were though, he was beside himself, though I didn't understand why. The same day Merlin stopped a dragon from destroying the kingdom, and made me think that I did it…I'm sorry for your loss…" Sad tears formed and trickled down the elder woman's face, though her expression didn't change.

"Four months he stayed with me, I never saw him again after that….He was trying to protect me….Uther's men were after him, his powers were seen as being too close to magic to let him live…." She trailed off lost for words and instead let out of a sob of long suppressed grief. At once Gwen's comforting arms wrapped around her, offering shelter from pain and a shoulder on which to weep. Arthur and Morgana share a glance. So many questions he wanted to ask. When did Merlin's magic first appear?

Was there anywhere he might have gone? Something, anything that might help him to understand the situation that befuddled him, he would ask about. But he remained silent. Questions could wait for a time. She had the right to mourn the man she loved, whom she had not seen in more than twenty years, and would now never see again. When he stopped to consider it Arthur realized something. All that he wanted to know about destinies, prophecies, the things Morgause seemed to know and fear, Merlin had only learned of himself after coming to Camelot and speaking with the dragon. Memories of their conversation in the dungeon bubbled into conscious thought. His mother wouldn't know anything. The journey had been wasted after all. They wouldn't find him, and they wouldn't learn anything.

"If he was anything like his son, than he was a better man than most," Gwen soothed. Hunnith nodded blearily through her tears.

"And now he's really gone, and now our son is being hunted like a beast for powers he never asked for."

"My father's men will never find him," Arthur assured. "That dragon could have carried him to Greece by now. Merlin has gotten himself somewhere safe, of that I'm certain. I only wish I'd known sooner and tried to put a stop to all this anti-magic nonsense."

"We will put a stop to it," Morgana said with such firmness that for a moment she appeared not as a beautiful young woman, but a wisely sage, tempered with the knowledge of time and experience. "And we'll bring Merlin home one day. I promise you that." Several minutes passed in silence. No one knew what to say. Questions were pointless, and further discussion of Balinor would only bring more unneeded sadness.

"Did that man out there, Griot, say there was another visitor here?" Gwen asked, helpfully changing the subject.

"Oh, yes, I think he's an old bard. He has a lovely singing voice. The children are quite taken with him." Hunnith pulled free from her comforter and gave her a thankful pat. She wiped stray tears from her cheeks and strode across the room to the huge brick oven that served the entire villages baking needs, and pulled from its edge a large loaf of barley bread wrapped in a heavily stitched cloth. "I did offer him something to eat, and the children will be getting fussy by now. Why don't you join me? You may as well here a song or two before you return to Camelot."

They agreed, and helped her in carrying a several more loaves of bread and a jug of fresh spring water out the door. Arthur thought Hunnith's mood had improved remarkably fast, though he supposed she was simply trying to force her thoughts to more pleasant things. Across the village square she led them towards edge of town to an open grassy area set at the entrance the forest that served as Ealdors border. On an old hickory stump sat the old bard. A saddlebag laid on the ground beside him along with a wooden staff the length of his body. In his withered old hands he held a cracked, splintery lyre, and his fingers danced across the strings. Giggling children sprawled in the flowered grass before him and danced joyously to the music.

Personally, Arthur had never cared much for bards, minstrels, or jester. Though occasionally their trickery was amusing, he'd never thought the combination of story and song entertaining. But this was different. Just hearing his songs caused strange yet pleasant sensations to twinge in his stomach. For a man who appeared to be at very least a hundred years old his voice was strong and young and filled with energy equal to if not greater than that of the youths surrounding him.

"O Emyrs in your crystal cave

Deep in the diamond of the day.

Will there ever be a singer

Whose music will smooth away

The furrow drawn by Adam's finger

Across the meadow and the wave?

Or a runner who'll outrun

Man's long shadow driving on,

Burst through the gates of history,

And hang the apple on the tree?

Will your sorcery ever show

The sleeping bride shut in the bower,

The day wreathed in its mound of snow,

And Time locked in his tower?"

With a final plucking of the strings he concluded the song. The children chorused with glee. Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. Emyrs. The song had mentioned Emyrs, the name that had struck terror into Morgause' heart, the name the Druid called Merlin, the name from prophecy. Until then he hadn't even thought of it. If the name Emyrs was part of legends and prophecy, a bard may have some of the answers he sought.

"Prince Arthur, wonderful to meet ya lad!" said the man in a strange accent, his cyan blue eyes shining with life. A wrinkled hand went to his throat and massaged the aged folds of skin. "Ah the bread. Thank you good lady. Come along children, have a snack before the next song." This he spoke in a regular Albion accent, completely different from his previous voice. "I insist on paying good lady. No, no, I won't take no for an answer."

From his robes he pulled a thick leather coin purse and poured five heavy golden coins into his palm. He placed them in Hunniths trembling hands. That was more money than likely existed in the entire town together.

Of course it wouldn't be very useful in Ealdor, though it would be godsend when she made the trek two villages over to the market.

"Please join me your majesty, dear ladies!" They sat in a circle around him and watched as he tore himself a large chunk of bread and ate to his hearts content.

"Artorius," he said. "I've been waiting for you. Questions? Go ahead and ask. You are the student and I the teacher. We have much to learn from each other, you and I."

Arthur blinked. Hunnith, Gwen and Morgana looked just as confused by the old bard's words. Student and Teacher? Artorius? Artorius was of course the Latin form of his name; that much he knew from what little he remembered of his language tutors had tried and failed to teach him as a child. But why on earth would this old man address him like that?

"Confused?" said the man kindly. "Understandable. It isn't every day you come across a senile old fool like me is it? Although I suppose not many senile fools can speak Latin, eh? Well none of the others can answer your questions about destiny and such. So go ahead, ask me…one moment." A wrinkled hand went to his mostly bald head. He turned his head away from them and called to the gaggle of running children. "Children, does one of you perhaps have my hat? I feel just naked without it."

A giggling girl broke away from the group and jogged over to their sitting circle. Covering her tawny colored hair was the oddest hat any of them had ever seen before. Heavily stitched blue fabric formed a pointed cone for the top that hung placidly over a circle piece that encircled the wearer's cranium. The girl whipped it off her head and placed it in the bards waiting hands before scampering off to rejoin her playmates.

He put it on at once. Its oddity seemed to suit him perfectly. That was made abundantly clear once he started bouncing the pointed tip from cheek to cheek with a few quick puffs of breath. Morgana asked the question everyone was thinking

"Who are you?" The hat stopped bouncing.

"Who am I? Well that's a rather imprecise question my dear. One could spend years and years searching for who they were without ever finding the true answer. Though I suppose you simply wanted my name? You may call me the Pilgrim." A brief silence followed.

"That can't be your real name," said Gwen incredulously.

"Real name?" he barked a laugh. "My dear, I've so many names I can hardly count them all. How am I to tell which is real and which is not? No, no, Pilgrim will do." He turned to look up at Arthur, who alone among them was still on his feet, eyes fixed on the Pilgrim, unsure of what to say and of what to ask. "Arthur here is a fine example. You are called Arthur by your friends, Sire by your subjects, and Artorius by the prophecies." The Prince's eyes widened. The old man nodded.

"Yes, you are part of the prophecies as well. Emrys, or Merlin as you know him, told you it was his fate to protect you on your path to becoming Camelot's king. This is true. But what of your destiny? You are to be king, of course, a great king, king for once and always. Oh yes, your destiny is great indeed, beyond great. And each of us sitting her has a part in your destinies, yours and Merlin's alike." He paused. "Come sit, you've far too many questions to ask on your feet."

Arthur glanced from Gwen to Morgana. Neither offered any advice, and looked equally dumfounded as he thought he must look. Then he looked to Hunnith. Her gaze had not left the Pilgrim, and her eyes were glazed with a strange expression of nostalgia, of familiarity. After a long moment she turned to the Prince.

"Please, sit down Sire. He knows what you seek. How he knows anything about Merlin or about your questions I do not know, but I believe that you can trust him. Merlin never told me any of this. He never said anything about destiny or prophecies, or about what happened during his time in Camelot. I suppose he had his reasons though, he didn't want me to worry." She turned back to the old man, who was smiling from ear to withered ear. "I'm sorry…Pilgrim, but have we bet before today? Something seems awfully familiar about you, but I can't place it." The Pilgrim chucked.

"I am sure we have good lady. I passed through Ealdor many, many years ago. Perhaps too long ago for you to remember, I am dreadfully old."

Slowly, albeit a little hesitantly, Arthur sank down onto the grass beside Gwen, his chainmail clinking with the motion.

"Please," Arthur uttered quietly, barely more than a whisper. "Tell me what it is you know about Merlin, about me, about these prophecies we keep hearing about, all of it….please." The Pilgrim's eyes twinkled in the midday sunlight. His smile grew.

"I was there more than a century ago when the prophecy was first spoken to your great-grandfather the High King Vortigern, by the Weaver, an old friend of mine. Before you ask, Merlin is with her now. She is preparing him for what's to come."

"A century?" Morgana repeated skeptically. "You can't possibly be that old, even with magic, which I assume you have considering you're even talking to us about all this. And 'The Weaver'? Do you and all your acquaintances use titles instead of actual names?" The borderline harshness of her words did not even begin to faze him, his smile remained firmly in place.

"I'm well over sixteen-hundred years old, whether you believe me or not. When one works with magic, and you're right in assuming that I do, in the ways that I do age becomes less and less relevant as time goes by. The same is true for the Weaver, although her end is fast approaching her, though she appears to be in her prime. And what's wrong with titles? Names are useless on their own unless they convey one's true nature. And does not your name bear a few titles of its own, Morgana Gorlois La Fey, Camelot's ward and Uther's pride?"

"It's not the same," Morgana seethed, fighting to suppress the flush of pink that crept across her cheeks.

"It is," the Pilgrim shot back. "As much as I'd love to argue philosophy with you my lady, we must see to other matters. Now where was I? Ah, the prophecy."

"Was it really made before my great-grandfather?" Arthur asked, his curiosity more than peaked by now. The Pilgrim nodded. "Then how is it I've never heard of it until now? I've poured through all the family histories, and none of the texts mention any prophecy." Both Gwen and Morgana threw him sideways looks that said they found it rather hard to believe he'd spent any of his spare time in the castle library instead of training out in the yard. He shrugged. "My father required me to learn the Pendragon family histories, whether I wanted to or not." Pilgrim clucked his tongue, and answered the question.

"Vortigern had rather disdainful views on the magical arts, much like your father Artorious." Morgana's eyes narrowed dangerously at mention of Uther. "Though he held such views out ofm a lack of belief in magic. When the first of the prophecies was spoken he dismissed it as the crazed ramblings of a deranged little girl. Let us see what you think of it then." He took up his harp, and readjusted himself on the stump. His spindly fingers flew across the copper strings. "The first part you heard in my song, now here is the first prophecy from beginning to end. There are many others of course, but there'll be time for that later, eh?"

The music began to glow. Serene notes soared through in the summer air, echoing through the village and the forest, calming all souls who heard. Light and dark, fire and ice, hatred and love, all of these were sewn into the melody.

"O Emrys in your crystal cave

Deep in the diamond of the day.

Will there ever be a singer

Whose music will smooth away

The furrow drawn by Adam's finger

Across the meadow and the wave?

Or a runner who'll outrun

Man's long shadow driving on,

Burst through the gates of history,

And hang the apple on the tree?

Will your sorcery ever show

The sleeping bride shut in the bower,

The day wreathed in its mound of snow,

And Time locked in his tower?

Artorius in your hallowed hall

Blade etched against the sky

Poised to fell the blow,

That seals the bastards fall.

Take me up

Cast me away,

Your weapon shall enshrine

And know a lady's kiss

Sweeter than the vine.

Guided and taught by the child of light

Warriors brave and stalwart

Beat away the souls fright.

Sister, boars lies lead amiss from true

Bloodied womb stained a scarlet hue.

Witches dark spin their spells

Foe of the round table

Lightning strikes and light confounds

Ending this fair fable."

With a final strum of the lyre, The Pilgrim brought the tune to an end. Children had ceased their play and stood silently in the aftermath. Those seated around the bard were chilled pale and ramrod stiff. Astonishment and fear forked across Morgana's beautiful irises. Who is this man? She thought, stricken. Where did he learn these prophecies, was he truly present at their speaking? How did he know all of our names and our titles without being told of them? He knows of my allegiance to Morgause, of my plot against Camelot, my ploy for the throne? It had to be true. The bastard, the sister, witches…. Why had he not struck her down then? What games was this old prophet playing? Did he intend to work against her? To align himself with her?

"What…what does that mean?" The Pilgrim set aside his instrument.

"Parts of it are rather cryptic. Others however are much easier to interpret, when looked at with the proper mindset. Can you not think of how the words apply to your life, my boy?" Arthur thought, wracking his brain, picking and dissecting specifics pieces of the song that actually made a tidbit of sense. There weren't very many.

"I'm Artorius, I suppose, though I've never actually been called that. Merlin is Emrys that's obvious. The witches….there's more than one then…one must be Morgause, but who are the others? Nimueh, perhaps? My father saw her as one of the greatest magical threats in existence, despite her apparent disappearance. She hasn't made trouble for years now. A lady's kiss…" the prince's usually pale skin suddenly burned bright burgundy. Eyes darting to Guinevere, he all but rounded on the elderly man. "The prophecy talks about my love life, really? Now why is that in there?" By now Gwen's complexion had changed to match her secret lover's, Morgana forced a mischievous smile. Hunnith held a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh.

"One can never know what a prophecy will say my boy. Some foretell battles waiting on the horizon, while others predict love between two people. The only advice I can give on that subject, is to say that I hope your love turns out better than mine. Keep digging, you've only scratched the surface of meaning."

"Well," Arthur began again, recovering from his embarrassment. "The bastard, I've no idea who that could be, I don't think I've ever actually met one. 'Blade etched against the sky, Poised to fell the blow,' does that mean a weapon? I need a new sword?"

"Perhaps. Go on. You're getting there."

"'Sister boars lies lead amiss from true, bloodied womb stained a scarlet hue'. Well that I can't make anything of, I haven't got a sister. Unless I count you Morgana, though you're only my foster sister."

"Yes," Morgana said through gritted teeth. Her pulse was beginning to rise. Sweat beaded on her brow. "Keep trying Arthur. I can't think of anything."

"'Witches dark spin their spells, foe of the round table.' I'm not sure what the 'round table means', but the first part sounds as if Morgause and her accomplices are going to attack Camelot. That's to be expected, of course. Who is the 'Child of Light'?" Any answer that Arthur's new teacher may have given was drowned out by a sudden blood curdling scream.

He spun around to see villagers flinging aside their tools and began to run as fiery projectiles rained from the sky. Arrows tips with flaming oiled rags peppered the thatched roves of Ealdor's cottages, wreathing them all in orange red flames that danced and swayed in the hot summer air. The knights had dropped their temporary farming armaments and drawn their swords and readied their shields, preparing for battle. The thundering of hooves sounded and clouds of ominous dust billowed forth from the dirt road that led into town. With a loud shink Arthur drew his own weapon. Then they appeared.

Riding twelve abreast, men armed to the teeth and encased in finely made black plate armor charged down the road, curved swords drawn and raised. At the back of the column rode the standard barer. Above him flapped a dark black banner, onto whose fabric was stitched a familiar crest. The crest of Cenred. Beside the crest was a different mark. It was not woven in, but rather crudely panted on with some unknown substance. A silvery 'M' shone along with Cenred's mark.

Without even thinking Arthur moved to charge forward. There was little to no possibility of him and his knights besting a battalion of cavalry on foot, but they had to try. There was no time to question the situation, all they could do was fight. Before he'd even taken a single step a cold sting poked at his throat. He peered down to see the shining blade of a short sword poised at his neck. With a slight turn of his head and a swiveling of his eyes he was able to see its wielder. Morgana smirked devilishly.

"I'm afraid things are going to change from this point forward, brother."

I was going to make this longer, but I really wanted to get it out. So instead I'm making it a two parter, second part comes out tomorrow or day after. Thanks for reading everyone. One last question though. I feel like my chapters aren't long enough, like not enough happens in them. Any thoughts? I also can't take credit for the poem, it's by Edwin Muir, and featured in the Arthurian novel, the Crystal Cave.


	8. The Crystal Cave

When Merlin opened his eyes the exhaustion he'd felt the previous day had left him completely. Dull pain ran through each of his limbs, but in terms of energy he was entirely refreshed. Around him were piled mounds upon mounds of fur lined cushions. They'd served as more than adequate bedding for the night, and were softer than any material the young man servant had ever felt before. The Weaver's tent was dimly lit by a pair of torches that flickered lightly on their golden bracket stands.

Off to the right Lancelot lay snoozing amongst a similarly bedded pile. In the crook of his elbow the dragon egg was securely fasted to his arm by a strip of thick deer-hide leather. Psychically Merlin could hear the unborn dragoness snoring lightly within its shell. Smiling he sat up, stretched his arms above his head with a great yawn, and took in his surrounding fully.

Verown's wolf friend sat at the tents entrance. It's shoulders were cocked upward and its tail waved rhythmically through the air. Not a happy motion, the razor like fur of the tail danced like knives poised to impale any oncoming attacker. Verown himself was nowhere to be seen. However Merlin suspected he was just outside the tent flap with his oversized claymore at the ready. When he looked down at his own body he gave a start of surprise.

At some point while he slept the torn and dirt caked servants clothed he'd been wearing had been replaced by a set of elegant robes. A combination of gold and green threads spun their way up his arms and over the lower part of his stomach. This gave the illusion that he was garbed in vines and brush.

Upon each shoulder was stitched a different symbol. On the left was the tri-leafed symbol of the druids and on the right was the scarlet red dragon of the Pendragon family seal. Encircling his throat was a thin leather cord from which hung a wooden circulate on which was carved a foreign character its wearer did not recognize. Suddenly the tent flaps swished open and the energetic form of the Weaver pranced inside. A similar robe to Merlin's encased her child-like frame and around her waist hung several brightly colored pouches that gave off a tinkling noise as she moved. Her silver owl companion, or 'Oderan' as she'd refered to it was nested comfortably in her hair.

"Oh good," she said brightly, seeing that he was sitting up. "You're awake. Come along then Emrys. The two of us have quite a lot to do this morning before we become entrenched in the loathsome political situation of the camp. Dear Gods I'm not looking forward to that. Here, eat up." She tossed him a reasonably sized apple before skipping across the tent to retrieve her staff that lay hidden amongst her own bed pile.

"Where are we going?" Merlin asked, climbing to his feet and taking a generous bite of the fruit. He peered back down at his robes. "And why am I dressed like this, did you undress me last night?" Suspicion was laced into his voice. Having only arrived the previous evening he wasn't sure just how much he trusted this little girl who claimed to be over a century in age. Her right hand man had attacked him on sight, supposedly out of a desire to prove that he was a divinely begotten messiah. For obvious reasons he was skeptical about anything any of the Druids told him.

"To your cave of course," she said with a broad grin, spreading her arms wide. "And yes I did dress you, your other clothes were in despicable condition, and these are rather helpful when channeling magic. Don't be embarrassed," she said noting the crimson blush smear his cheeks. "It's nothing I haven't seen before. I'm old enough to be your great-great grandmother."

"Part of me doubts that," Merlin muttered. "And what do you mean 'my cave'? I haven't got a cave."

"Well of course you have a cave Emrys," the Weaver giggled patiently. "I suppose you haven't heard my prophecy about you? Oh well there's time for that once we get there. Emrys and his crystal cave. My I've waited such a long time for this…" she trailed off for a moment distractedly, before turning back to Merlin. "Let's go! Verown can look after Lancelot, and perhaps teach him to bond with his Oderan before it hatches." With that she turned on her heel and exited the tent. Sighing heavily Merlin followed. The first few steps were difficult as he kept tripping over the long folds of his robes. After a few moments of fumbling with their overly long hem he push open the tent flap and stepped out into the cool morning air.

Beams of sunlight barely managed to pierce their way through the limbs of the trees high above. Thick dew drops stained the few tufts of grass that hadn't been cleared away for camp space, and the smells of cooking breakfast overwhelmed all other senses. Merlin had been right in assuming that Verown had been standing guard at the door. The mage-warrior sat cross legged with his weapon laid carefully across his lap.

In one hand he held a whetstone which he ran across the blades edge, while in the other he held a thick burlap cloth soaked with lamp oil. The claymore was the epitome of two handed weaponry and would do a nobleman proud. He leapt to his feet and walked with Merlin and the Weaver to a small cook fire where a portly woman in a simple peasants dress was ladling out porridge to the few men who were awake at that early hour.

These men bowed in respect as their young looking leader approached, to which she responded with a quick nod and a cheerful smile. Verown sent them scurrying off with a wave of his hand. Several of them dropped their clay bowls as they dashed to get away. Apparently Verown was considered quite intimidating amongst his comrades. He accepted a bowl from the cook before sending her away as well. His mwolf familiar padded its way down from the tent and licked its lips tentatively hoping for scraps. Stirring the bowls contents around with his hand carved spoon, he looked to the Weaver.

"You're taking him to the cave today, Mother Weaver?"

"Indeed Verown. Please don't let anyone follow us. Emrys has no need to be involved with the people's petty squabbles just yet. I want you to train with Lancelot today. He's magnificent with a sword but one can always use further instruction. Make sure that he keeps the egg with him at all times. It would be a catastrophe if it were to fall into the wrong hands. Do you understand?" Verown nodded.

"I do mother Weaver. Would you like a new sword forged for the boy? He told me his old blade was destroyed when he retrieved the egg of beneath the old Dragonlord keep." The Weaver considered for a moment.

"Yes. Have my suit of silverite mail melted down for it. I hardly have any use for armor, and the material is light and sharp as a flint when forged properly. Eat up quickly Verown. You've much work today and Emrys and I must get to the cave and back as soon as possible."

"What is this cave you keep talking about?" Merlin asked, ignoring the bowl of food in his lap.

"The crystal cave Emrys. I thought I told you," chided the Weaver. "However your confusion is understandable. Your prophecy speaks of it and its role in your fate." She raised a hand, preventing him from interrupting. "I'm aware that Kilgharrah's told you of the prophecies and what many of them imply, but please, do not ask me what exactly they say quite yet. Once in the crystal cave all your questions will be answers. In fact, I'm afraid you'll be learning more than you wish. I always assumed the Pilgrim would bring you there himself when the time came, but no matter. Fate weaves itself as it wills." Knitting his eyebrows frustrated, Merlin asked.

"If you won't tell me what this 'crystal cave is then at least answer me this. Who is the 'Pilgrim'? Lancelot said that a man who called himself that sent him on a flying horse to where he would find me. Who is he, why has he been helping Lancelot? You must know him if you're as old as you say you are." Twinkling little lights flashed across the Weaver's wide eyes and her smile spread.

"Go and start work on that sword Verown. I wish to speak to Emrys in private." Verown rose from his seat, dropped a bow, and ran off towards the smithy's hut with his familiar following dutifully. The Weaver rose as well, and motioned for Merlin to follow. Together the two of them walked the length of the camp until they reached the edge of the woods, where two large oak stumps marked the start of the muddy forest path.

"I know the Pilgrim very well," she told him once they were safely away from the camp and any prying ears. "It was he who taught me to hone my ability to see and touch the threads of life, and he was there when I first sung the prophecies to the high King Vortigern, Arthur's great-grandfather, a century ago. It's rather ironic when you think about it, seeing as I was the one who taught him to master his abilities as well."

"But who is he?" Merlin persisted. He was growing less and less patient every time the girl spoke and the little trust he had for her was waning thin. "If he was there a century ago then he must be at least as old as you are. How can people possibly live so long, does he look like a little boy then?" Another giggle escaped her.

"Oh he's much older than I. Come next month he'll be nearly seventeen hundred years old. And no he isn't a little boy, he's an old man, with the longest whitest beard that you'll ever see. That's where our similarities in that aspect end however. Both of us are kept alive by the same powerful force, our destinies. Our paths lay out before us have not ended, and so we have not withered away. While he aged and his body decayed I was meant to retain this form.

And thus I appear to be a little girl. But that wasn't really your question was it? Who is the Pilgrim…well that's a rather complicated story. One that I believe he's meant to tell you himself. No matter. I will tell you what it is you need to know at this moment. He is the guardian of your fate, of Arthur's fate. He is the guardian of chose chosen to change the course of history. Whatever higher power watches over the world has gifted him with the knowledge of what was, what is, and what will be. You too will receive such a gift. Together with him you are the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end of all things. In the cave you will see what made him what he is, though only when the cave wills it so."

Merlin blinked, and then blinked again. That was quite a mouthful. It answered his question yet answered nothing at the same time.

"Uh…what does all that mean?"

"It means that he knows what's going to happen, when it's going to happen and why it's going to happen. Your threads are interwoven similarly to yours and Arthurs, though in a different way and for a different purpose. No more questions now. The cave is very close." Indeed it was.

The path had all but disappeared, fading into a dusty rubble covered terrain that led up to the rocky crest of a hill. A lively spring flowed over its top and pooled together at the hills base as serene pond of cyan blue. However these things were not what caught the young sorcerers eyes. Carved into the hill was the perfectly circular mouth of a cave, gaping at the air like some overgrown beast deprived of oxygen. Pitch black filled it. Nothing could be seen within.

"You can make a flame I assume?" the Weaver asked. Merlin nodded numbly his eyes still fixed on the black portal of nothingness.

"Agnis," a magical flame came into being above his palm. It floated several inches above his skin and its warmth spread from his bones to the tips of his fingers. The Weaver's tiny hand went to his shoulder.

"Hold it close to you and do not let it go out. The flame will be your guide. Look into the reflections of the crystals and the truth will reveal itself to you." With a gentle thrust of her wrist she sent him stumbling forth into the cave.

Moisture was thick in the atmosphere. His breath was visible in the little light his spluttering flame provided. On occasion he was tripped by one of the loose stones that were strewn across the wet ground. Stalactites and stalagmites protruded from the floor and ceiling like stone teeth ready to crush and devour. For nearly a quarter of an hour Merlin moved at a snails pace through labyrinthine halls. Until that is he saw a sparkle of color out of the corner of his eye.

Raised above the cavern floor was an opening only two or three paces across. From within shone an eerie light, like a mixture of sea green and royal purple. Pushing more energy into the flame he caused it to grow, increasing the lights intensity. Quickening his pace Merlin tiptoed to the opening and lowered himself to his knees to look inside. At once his jaw hit the floor.

The chamber within was small, however its size did nothing to decrease its magnificence. It was a shimmering globe of crystals brighter and more finely cut than even the wealthiest nobleman could hope to get their hands on. Above Merlin's palm the flame began to dance and spin as if it were being drawn towards the gemstones. Taking this as a sign, albeit a sign he couldn't quite comprehend, Merlin crawled on his hands and knees into the globe.

"Ah!" he cursed. The stones were razor sharp and tore tiny holes in the skirt of his robes and cut across the skin of his knees. The pain subsided quickly. Shadows flashed over the glistening surface of the crystals. Jumping from his palm the flame's light filled the stones, and in a single instant a brighter light than he'd ever seen in his life stung at Merlin's eyes. All memories of pain and thought left him. Gold filled his irises. Dream-like images began to swirl and twirl through his field of vision.

A pair of warriors one wearing a crown, the other draped in a torn robe black as night itself. A sword at the bottom of a lake with curved words written on its blade. An old man with a white beard leaping forward with his arms spread. The roar of two dragons, one huge the other significantly smaller than the other as they flew into battle, whether against each other or against an unseen third party he could not tell.

A womans evil smile. This image held longer than the others. She was beautiful. Her face was obscured by a gray veil. She was with child and her stomach bulged stretching the silk of her dress. Darkness permeated from the bulge. It reeked of vengeance, of hatred, of sadness. And then the image faded, making way for the last of them. A stone tomb in the middle of a lush meadow. Flowers were piled atop it and an elderly woman with silvery colored hair lay sprawled across it, weeping. Carved into the stone was a single line that from that point forward would forever be burned into Merlin's memory.

Here lie Arthur, formerly king, and king to be


	9. Morgan or Morgana

This can't be happening, Arthur thought as the short swords blade pressed closer and closer against his throat. Pain began to cloud his vision and blood began to run in hot red trickles down his neck. He was forced roughly to his knees by some unseen hand. His foster sister leered down at him, her knuckles white on the hilt, maliciousness swaying in her eyes. This can't be happening. Gwen screamed and pulled side the outermost layer of her skirt, revealing her own sword hanging loosely in its scabbard.

"No, no, no Gwen," Morgana chided as if speaking to an unruly child. "We can't have that. Be a good girl and sit down. Enjoy the show." Flexing her fingers she sent her maid sprawling to the ground. Momentarily the glow of magic remained in her eyes, before ebbing away like the fading light of the sunset. Arthurs eyes widened nearly to the point of splitting. Morgana chuckled at his reaction and then shot a sideways glance at Gwen to take in hers. Glee seemed to fill her, coming together in a smile so poisonously sweet and icily terrible that it could've chill the heart of the devil himself.

"Did I never tell the two of you I was a sorceress?" she looked up at the Pilgrim, who sat ramrod stiff on his tree stump, expression unreadable. "You presumably already knew. With all your talk of prophecies destiny and the magic you supposedly possess you must have known. How it is you know however I cannot say. No matter. In a few moments you will no longer be a factor 'Pilgrim.'"

"So this this is how you've chosen to reveal yourself, my dear," the Pilgrim deadpanned, seemingly unperturbed by the mocking of his name. His aged blue eyes darted around the village and watched as the charging horsemen herded Ealdor's occupants like terrified sheep into the center of town. "Must things truly come to this? Have you really resorted to the destruction of a village just to draw the attention of a single man? Rather reckless tactics for one as intelligent as yourself."

Morgana's brows arched quizzically. A vein twitched in her temple and her gleeful look became one of confused anger, though no less dignified.

"How is it that you know such things, old man? Do your prophecies speak of this as well? I find it rather bothersome that cryptic songs woven a century ago are able to divulge our intentions. My sister will find this rather troubling."

"No specifics were given with the verses," the Pilgrim told her. "However that's to be expected. Prophetic poetry is meant to be interpreted by the listener, rather than reveal its truths outright. But I did not need the assistance of prophecy to know your intentions, Morgana. Those I have known for centuries. Admittedly I have not been looking forward to this day, and yet here it is."

By now Sir Leon and the rest of the knights had engaged the horseman in a pitched and fierce battle and the sound of steel on steel joined the screams. Camelot's finest stood their ground, but it was clear at once that their efforts would be for naught. Foot soldiers were always ineffectual against cavalry unless they were specially trained spearman, and alas, for all their skill the knights possessed only swords and shields. The Pilgrim watched the fighting for a moment. Then he raised a wrinkled hand. Gold flashed in his eyes and the staff that lay on the ground at his side leapt into his grasp.

"Angeli Casi," he tapped his staff once. As if they were a single cohesive unit the horseman's mounts all reared up on their hind legs and shook their riders to the ground. Fear commanding their senses, the beasts turned and fled the village, letting out a nonstop string of terrified whinnies as they went. On the ground Cenred's soldiers struggled to their feet and looked in bewilderment after the horses.

Many had lost hold of their weapons, and the opposing knights were ready to take advantage of that. "Fundo," spoke the Pilgrim with another tap. Hissing noises filled the air as each and every weapon, whether carried by knight or soldier, began to glow a heated orange red. The glowing intensified, and within a few moments the weapons had melted into brownish dust. "Siste!" A shimmering purple light encased itself around each of the fallen men, keeping them from pummeling each other to death with their bare fists. The Pilgrim turned back to Morgana.

"There shall be no death here today Morgana," he decaled, standing up. "No blood shall be shed because of your petty need for vengeance against your father."

"'Petty'?" Morgana shot back fiercely, tightening her grip on Arthur, who looked about ready to explode from a combination of shock and steady blood loss. Her blade had remained intact, protected from the spell by her own magic. Arthur's sword lay discarded on the ground, inches from his grasp."Obviously you know far less than you claim. My vengeance against Uther, who is NOT my father, is anything but petty. You've just shown that you do indeed possess magic, and yet you do not understand this. Have you not been hunted, tormented, and hated, for your gifts? My vengeance is the least pertinent factor here my friend. Uther will die by my hand one way or the other."

"Vengeance is perhaps the most pertinent factor here, for if it were not for vengeance we would not be standing here at all."

"Indeed," Morgana agreed. "If it were not for Uther's thirst for revenge against Nimueh for the death of his queen the great purge would never have taken place." She peered down at Arthur, and told him in tone full of smugness. "Conceived of magic, and borne to a barren woman, that's what you were my dear brother. So desperate was your father for an heir that he turned to the High Priestess of the old religion for help. She explained to him the laws of life and death, that for a life to be created, a life must be given."

"He accepted the deal, and unknowingly condemned his beloved to death. So lo and behold you were born and Ygraine was dead, and thus the king brought genocide to those who practice magic. Supposed retribution for his foolish mistake. Is that petty revenge Pilgrim? Does that not justify our plans? In what way were Uther's actions justified? For years I have lived in fear of what he may do to me. Death is all that man deserves, and an eternity in hell. My revenge is justice, and my people will be free."

If it were possible Arthurs face grew even paler. Memories flooded back to him. Morgause had shown such things over a year ago, visions of his mother, claiming precisely the same thing. He had dismissed it as an illusion and a trick, created to turn him against his father. No. none of it was true. It couldn't be true.

"Artorius, I am sorry that you learned the truth in this way," the Pilgrim told the prince with genuine sympathy. "Just know that your father did not know it was your mother's life that was to be taken. And no, Morgana," he cut the sorceress off as she opened her mouth to speak. "That does not justify genocide in anyway. But how is it that your actions are justified? Do you not seek to bring death to all those who ever loved you or called you friend? Your brother here has committed no such crimes against you and his prejudice against our kind has faded to all but nothing. And what of your friend Guinevere?"

"A son is loyal to his father," Morgana interrupted. "Arthur is no exception. And Gwen? She is loyal to Arthur, and would have betrayed me in time. That is certain." Gwen, who had said nothing during the whole exchange, looked hurt, as if an invisible blade had pierced her heart. Betray her? Why in the world would she turn her back on her best friend, even for the one she loved? She had never seen any conflict such as this between the two royals, how could she betray either of them, when in her eyes there had been nothing to betray? Hunnith huddled at her side with a single comforting arm around her shoulder, looking just as baffled and terrified.

"In what terrible way has she wronged you?" the Pilgrim asked. Sadness covered his face like a mask. "Justice? No justice is not what you seek. Has Morgause passed to you her belief in magical superiority; that your power gives you a divine right to rule over the common folk? I know that you intend to take the throne for yourself when both the king and prince lie dead."

"What if I do? What does it matter? If I were Queen those with magic would live free of fear and persecution. You would be free of persecution. Are you like Merlin in that sense, that you would turn traitor to your own kind?"

"Persecution must be rooted out, I agree. But not in this way my dear lady. Can you not see the blatant self-deprecating hypocrisy of your ways? Your father believes magic to be an evil and terrible force that can only bring death and destruction. Do you seek to prove him right?"

"Uther is not my father!" she shrieked. Eyes flashing gold and deranged she flung Arthur aside like a rag doll. He landed in the nearby grass, mostly unharmed. His hands went to the cut at his throat applying desperate pressure. Morgana's short sword landed with a clatter nearby. "He deserves no love from me! Justice will be done and I shall be Camelot's queen! No matter the cost! Agnis Wifaras!"

Gusts of wind gathered around her and fire crackled in her fists. The flames that ate away at the thatched roofs of the houses grew larger. The Pilgrim closed his eyes. Tears began to drip down his cheeks.

"'No matter the cost'? Have you grown so desperate that you would end the lives of the innocent simply to prove a point? So desperate that you would use your own womb to forge a weapon? Yes, I know that you are with child. Prophecy speaks of the child, of the things that he will do. Has Morgause acquired the chain that transcends time, or does she still search? If not then she is close. Her excavation of the isle of the blessed will be successful. You ought to know…"

Around Morgana the gathering elements faltered slightly. She gaped at him open mouthed. Subconsciously a hand scrubbed at her stomach, where a being of great power was being formed. The Pilgrim ignored her expression and pushed forward with his semi-prepared speech, his voice full of conviction, albeit saddened conviction.

"You asked why it is I am a 'traitor to my kind', I am no such thing Morgana. I am more than simply a sorcerer, I am a human being, and a native of Albion." He pointed to Arthur. "All I have done has been to make him for Albion. Every spell I have cast from the simplest flame to my last enchantment has been cast so that he may be king. For by the blade of Excalibur he will found the round table and its knights, and by his rule Albion shall be made into a kingdom united till the end of time. It is for that cause that I shall fight, and it is for that cause that I shall die….forgive me, Morgana, I beg of you. You have always been my greatest failure. You were always too stubborn to let me save you."

"Save me?" Morgana shrieked. With a roar the flames in her hands became twisting serpents of lightning. "From what?"

"From yourself of course," he replied simply. "Morgause's lessons have truly gotten the better of you then. You have ceased to be Morgana. That woman is dead isn't she, Morgan La Fey, the dark witch, the dark fairy?" Twirling his staff high above his head the Pilgrim's eyes burned bright with magic. "If it is a battle you wish of me then you shall have it. Both of us shall live to fight another day, for it is neither of our fates to destroy one another. But know this my dear. Destiny is a matter of choice, not of chance. The prophecies have painted you as a dark witch and you have become such by your own freewill. I choose to spare your life today because I know that I must and that it is right to do so, and….you've made all the wrong choices. "

Thunder clapped and lightning shot across the sky like splintered daggers.

Clouds thickened and blackened dark as night. Lightning burst from Morgana's fingers directly at the elderly man's heart. The Pilgrim's hand was there in an instant, and the electric energy made contact with his open palm. A streak of blue energy forked from each of his fingertips and shot upward. His opponents attack had been redirected. Beneath them the earth began to quake and the swirling gusts around Morgana ceased to flow. Gold left her eyes and she fell to her knees.

"Leave this place," the Pilgrim whispered. "And your life will be spared for now." A whistle escaped his lips, so loud that it could be heard clearly above the tumultuous gathering of the thunder clouds. Several trees at the forests edge cracked in two and parted the way for a single white gelding horse. Morgana's eyes locked with the older man. Traces of fear could be seen through her mask of anger and determination. And with that she clambered onto the animals back and disappeared into the woods.


	10. Dreams

A long silence followed Morgana's departure, broken only by the crackling of the house fires and the low hum of the force fields immobilizing Cenred's soldiers and Arthur's knights. The villagers' screams had died down to quiet whimpers, and those bold enough had broken away from the shelter of the group huddled in the town square to assess the damage done to their home.

Gwen darted across the grassy knoll and slid on her knees to Arthur's side. A trembling hand was clasped tightly over his neck, smothering the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers and pale white plastered his once colored cheeks. Morgana's sword had sliced through the layers of his skin and pierced the vital artery that lay there.

"Arthur!" she screamed.

"Please, allow me." She looked up to see the Pilgrim standing beside her, glancing down at the injured prince. Joints popping with the effort he knelt down and pried Arthur's weakening hands away from the wound. His leathery hands clamped down on the fountain-spurts of blood, and his eyes glowed gold with magic.

"Sanitas." At once color began to flow back to the prince's face. The finely cut flesh began to knit itself back together as a brief shower of multicolored sparks shot from the Pilgrim's fingers.

These lingered about Arthur's face, dancing like fireflies before flickering out of existence. Satisfied with his work, the Pilgrim removed his hands. With a start, Arthur sat up. Dried blood stained his throat, but the wound was now completely healed, leaving only a long white scar behind.

"Morgana-"

"Is a sorceress," the Pilgrim finished his sentence. "I am sorry that the two of you had to discover the truth in such a way." He glanced at Gwen, scanning her features for any sign of outward emotion. "Now if you'll pardon me a moment we can get back to the business at hand."

"No, wait," Arthur said leaping to stand, his voice trembling as he spoke. "Answer my question. What in God's name is going on?" Nonetheless the Pilgrim got to his feet and dusted off the hem of his robes.

"Please," Gwen pleaded, rising to Arthur's side. She too was trembling. "Just explain. Why would Morgana do this?" Hot tears began to pour from her eyes, trailing down her cheeks and staining the fabric of her collar.

"Coming from my mouth it will little make sense, and even less will be properly heeded. No, you're second lesson will not come from me. I know from experience how such a betrayal feels, so believe me when I tell you that I understand your pain. No magic can truly heal such pain, but momentarily answers will be given. Excuse me a moment."

Eyes turning skyward the Pilgrim lifted his staff and gave it an elegant wave.

"Starthony."

Thunder boomed, lightning clapped, and from the swirling black clouds raindrops began to fall. Though slow at first, soon the speed picked up, and the afternoon drizzle became a tumultuous downpour.

Village men had begun hauling buckets to a nearby well to extinguish the fires. Sighing with relief they dropped their load, spread their arms wide and let the cool water wash away the summer heat.

"Go ahead and tie them up, will you?" the Pilgrim called to them. He pointed with his staff to the trapped soldiers. "You'll find they're very easy to move in their current state. The shields only prevent movement from within. Leave the knights, I'll release them in a moment." Shooting the old man suspicious looks the men complied. Using coils of high quality rope they restrained and gagged Cenred's men like captured hogs.

With that done the Pilgrim tapped his staff. The shield disappeared. Ignoring the resulting curses from the newly Sir Leon and the muffled screams of soldiers he turned back to Arthur and Gwen. A tiny smile cleaved the sadness from his face.

"Clotho," he waved a hand before them. Sleep overtook them, and like a pair of ragdolls they collapsed forward in a tangled heap of limbs. "Hunnith," he called over his shoulder. "Would you be a dear and help me move them out of the rain. It seems they've fainted."

LINEBREAK

Dreams had never meant much to Arthur. To him they'd always simply been vague series of images buried deep in his subconscious that ultimately meant very little. He hardly ever dreamt, and when he did all details of the dream were usually lost by morning. This however, was different.

Strange sensations tickled his skin. Dead silence rang in his ears and serene scents filled his nostrils, spreading sweet tastes across his tongue. His eyes opened and immediately they closed. No, he decided. That can't be. This isn't real. None of that is possible, I'm just dreaming.

But the image he'd seen had been so vivid, so detailed…was it real?

Cautiously, Arthur eased his eyes open.

He lay sprawled on his back in a meadow of many colors. Wildflowers bloomed in great bunches. Birds sang a soothing melody amongst the trees. Scents of honeysuckle, of baking bread, of sweet smelling herbs and spices hang heavy in the air.

Spotted white rabbits bobbed through the flowers, nibbling idly on tufts of healthy green grasses. Thickets of birch and oak formed a tight border around the meadows edge. Off to one side the border broke, trees mysteriously absent, creating an arched entryway into a dark corridor through the forest.

None of these things Arthur found unbelievable. In fact he hardly noticed them with his eyes torn between the marvel in the sky, and the terror just five paces away.

Lying not far from the prince was a bear, deep brown in color and gargantuan in size. From the end of its blackberry nose to the tip of its tail it was easily twelve feet in length. Even on all fours it would have stood to Arthur's shoulder, and matched any warrior's ferocity. Its gaze of amber was fixed on him. Neutral and unfeeling, as if pondering how it should rip apart its next meal.

Slowly Arthur looked away, petrified, and gazed straight upward. Masses of ribbon, or at least looked like ribbons twirled and spun through the air, filling the sky with otherworldly lights as they danced like serpents across a royal blue background.

Each individual ribbon gave off it's own unique glow, separate and yet one with the others. Together they swam towards a magnificent orb hanging bright as the sun on the horizon. An end of each of them dispersed in all directions, into the forest and well beyond, while the other ends spun towards and gathered at the orb, drawn to it like bees to honey.

Suddenly Arthur realized that one such end seemed to sprout from his chest. It shone with color of purest gold, swaying lazily in the breeze, leaving glittery trails in its wake. Carefully controlling his moments as not to agitate the watching bear, the prince pulled the ribbon between his fingers. It emanated warmth. Some part of him, in the farthest pretenses of his mind, thought it felt familiar, like it was part of his very being. All fear faded away. A low growl escaped from the bears clenched jaws. Instinctively Arthur's hand flew to the hilt of his sword.

"Don't worry darling he won't hurt you. He just gets like that when anyone approaches. It's overcautious but that's just his way." The voice sounded cheerful and songlike. Out of the forest corridor stepped a woman with golden blonde hair that cascaded down her body in a mass of perfect ringlets. A fine blue dress fell past her knees, and a smile of purest joy pulled at her lips.

Violet light outlined her form, and a ribbon of the same color drifted from her bosom. One of her pale hands passed over the bear's fur in a friendly caress. Arthur recognized her. His heart jumped and strangled feelings clawed their way to the surface.

"M-mother?" Ygraine nodded, beaming with blue eyes that matched his own.

"It's so wonderful to see you Arthur. My, what the man you've grown into. And my, what the man you're going to be." She stepped towards him, her hand leaving the bear's muzzle. A finger wrapped around her purple ribbon. "And it's called a thread darling. The thread of your life, of your purpose, woven into the weave of fate." Ygraine offered her his hand.

Arthur hesitated. Was this a trick, an illusion crafted by magic? Morgause had done the same in the past. It could be done again. Ygraine laughed. A young, joyous laugh.

"Don't worry darling. I'm not here to trick you. The Pilgrim sent you here. I am ever so grateful to have this chance to talk to you. Never can I truly repay that man what he's done for me this day."

Roughly she pulled him up by the forearm and enveloped him in a backbreaking embrace. This is what a mother's touch feels like, Arthur thought numbly. Warmth washed over him. The weight in his heart subsided and his arms wrapped around the woman, returning the hug.

"Mother," he breathed. "Is it truly you?" The question sounded higher than usual, childish almost, tinted with insecurity and desperation. The late queen smiled into his chest and nuzzled closer, unbothered by the feel of chain mail against her pale skin.

"Yes my son it is I. Oh how I've longed to hold you like this. Whether you be a man or a boy, to me you shall always be my precious babe." Heat flushed to Arthur's cheeks. Truly this was his mother. What she was, a ghost, a spirit, or simply a convincing hallucination he wasn't certain.

But she was who she appeared to be, and, to the prince, for the time being, that was more than enough. For the longest time they stood in this way, holding each other in the way that her death had not allowed them to before.

"Where are we, mother?" he asked finally.

"The isle of glass in the sky," she whispered wistfully. "This is the place where great kings are carried at the end of their time on earth. My son, this is Avalon, the golden kingdom beyond the horizon." She pulled away, took his hand in hers, and led him towards the forest path. "Come, you must see the blade and the river. The wicked day approaches, and you must be ready my son."

LINEBREAK

Familiar, rhythmic clangs woke Gwen from a deep slumber. She sat up, flustered. Light pains etched her back and pierced her limbs with a dozen pinpricks. The straw of the mattress she lay on stuck through the hand sewn sheets like the spears of tiny warriors charging across her bed

Wait, she thought. Bed? Spinning her neck round she took in her surroundings. It was her home, just as she'd left it. Clothes hung to dry over a robe bolted between two adjacent walls. Various bits of sewing lay strewn over the table and chairs waiting to be finished. Nothing was out of the ordinary. The clanging continued followed by a loud hissing noise.

This was a familiar sound, one around which she'd grown, that had always echoed in the background of her memories. It was the sound of a hammer on steel. The sound of smiting. Gwen swung her legs off the bed and darted across the one room house in a single mad leap. Her heart beat like a war drum in her chest. Hundreds of butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

Crossing the narrow yard behind the house in three quick steps she nearly flattened herself against the heavy wooden doors of the forge. So long had it been since she'd opened them. Straining with the handle the brown haired maid wrenched them open.

Gwen's mouth fell open and her heart slowed to a thud. Surely she was dreaming. The twisted emotions that sloshed in her gut were a mixture of sadness, of happiness, of grief, and above all, hope. Similar dreams had haunted her before. Dreams of the man now working at the anvil, standing alive, smiling and whole.

He was dressed simply in a pair of torn green breeches and the heavy apron that declared his profession. A slender yet muscled arm lifted the hammer once again and brought it down on a hunk of metal glowing red with heat. Blow by blow the man shaped the minerals into something grand. Something more than what it was now.

"D-daddy?" Gwen squeaked. The blacksmith set aside the hammer and turned. Tom grinned at his daughter.

"Sorry if I woke you sweetheart. I have a lot of work to do. I'm putting the finishing touches on the second of my greatest works." Oxygen was expelled from his lungs as the girl dove at him and wrapped her arms around his broad frame in a desperate hug. Tom steadied their footing, narrowly preventing both of them from toppling into the forge.

Gwen buried her face into his shoulder and let out a sob. Her father was dead. Two years ago she had watched as his mutilated corpse was carted through the city streets. And yet here he was.

"There, there," he said running a calloused hand through hair comfortingly. "It's alright Gwen. It's alright."

"This is a dream," she mumbled. "You're dead."

"Yes dear, I am. But this is real Gwen. The Pilgrim brought you here to me. Quite a day you've been having isn't it?"

"Morgana is a sorceress," said Gwen. The momentary happiness she left. She looked up.

"You know the Pilgrim. How?"

"He called my soul from beyond and brought me to talk to you. He is a very powerful man; with a sound mind and a heart as good as they come. But that's irrelevant to why we're here. I'm to give you answers and guidance. Dear, I'm so sorry about Morgana. A friends betrayal is a wound that never truly heals." The reminder of her mistress' deception felt like the thrust of a dagger. Denial still sought to fall from her tongue. Morgana was a sorceress,

She had nearly killed Arthur and had somehow summoned a bloodthirsty legion of cavalry.

"Why did she do it?" she asked. How her father could know the answer she did not know. But he had offered answers. "Why didn't she tell me? Has she always felt this way? " Tom shook his head.

"Not always. Her magic first manifested in her dreams as visions of the future. She thought them nightmares at first. Gaius' potions never did help with them. Later her powers furthered to conventional spells and enchantments. She feared Uther, and for a time tried in her own way to work towards legalizing magic. Eventually Morgana came to hate and vilify Uther more and more, and her plans grew in their venom. After my death she even attempted to kill him directly."

"Your death?"

"Indeed. Morgana believed my innocence and knew that I would be burned without being given a trial. In the dead of night she slipped me the key to my cell. I was cut down trying to escape." Gwen sobbed. "Overcome with rage and guilt she consorted with assassins to kill the king. In the end she relented. Uther showed her that despite his ruthlessness he does possess something of a heart. She would come to regret this decision. Persecution of magic continued and her powers began to spiral beyond her control. Then she met a woman named Morgause, her half-sister" Gwen gaped.

Sister?

"Lord Gorlois was unfaithful to lady Vivienne?"

"No, Morgause was Gorlois' legitimate daughter by his wife, born only a few years before you. At an early age she showed powerful signs of magic. Not knowing what to do her parents sent her to Nimueh, the high priestess of the Old religion and at the time a member of Uther's court, to raise the girl as her own. Lady Vivienne was unfaithful spouse Gwen. Uther is Morgana's father, and Arthur is her half-brother." Tom paused for his daughters dumbfounded stare.

"Uther is not my father!"

"While Gorlois was at war Uther did lay with her, and from that union she bore a child. Furious at this discovery Morgana now seeks to kill her father, as well as Arthur, and take the throne for herself. Power has corrupted her mind and painted her once good soul a shade of deepest black.

Through magic she took your appearance last night, and lay with her brother. His memory has been wiped in precaution, but her plans succeeded. Prophecy speaks of the one who will be Arthur's end. His own son, bore across the chains of time by his own sister. But the wicked day when father and son must do battle is far in the future, and now Morgause seeks to unleash hell upon Camelot, demons from beyond the abyss. Come, I will show you."

He took her by the hand and led her out of the forge. Only now the narrow yard was gone and was replaced by a long hall made of stones. Gwen jumped. This could still be a dream. Her father was alive and reality warped on a whim. Yet now, for some reason, she was almost certain it was real. There was no hazy veil hanging clogging her perception. Everything was clear.

A featureless gray carpet ran along the floor. The walls were lined with ornate brass picture frames. They were empty of paintings, and in each was only a square of white. Cobwebs dusted the high ceilings. Glooming shadows cast by flickering torches cloaked the hall in mystery.

"The Pilgrim has chosen you," Tom told her as they walked. "Eons of memory fill his mind. He knows what is, what was, and most importantly what will be. In order for destiny to be fulfilled these memories must be passed to another. The river of time will pass before your eyes my daughter. For someone must come to bear the knowledge of the future in order for that future to come to be. Here, in the realm of the Pilgrim's mind, they can be passed to you."

They approached the end of the hall, where there hung an empty painting smaller than the others, but with a much finer frame. Tom lifted their hands as one and pressed them to the blank canvas.

LINEBREAK

The forest path was long, dark and narrow. Arthur's grip on his mother's hand tightened with each step they took. All daylight was eclipsed by the canopy of the trees, and the way forward was illuminated only by the shimmering life thread that spun from the prince's chest like a ghostly length of rope. It cast eerie shadows before them, like the silhouettes of raised blades waiting in ambush. He peered nervously over his shoulder.

Behind them lumbered the great brown bear. Amber eyes fixed on him; it licked its black furry lips. Arthur shifted uncomfortably. Was it common for hungry animals to follow you in Avalon, or even a dream of Avalon? For hours it seemed they had walked, and he was growing less and less certain of where he was. Avalon, the golden city of legend….could it really be?

Myths and songs told of an island of glass that floated amongst the clouds. A golden dwelling, where great kings went to spend eternity.

"Why is it following us, mother?" he asked, shooting the beast another precautionary glance. "I find it rather unnerving." Ygraine chuckled lightly.

"Don't mind Ursoh darling. He's just here to watch us safely to our destination." Her voice was like a song. Pangs of euphoric joy shot through Arthur like the crack of a whip.

"Why?" The queen smiled at her son. Moving a strand of blonde hair from her face she replied.

"He is your Oderan, your spirit animal. There are those whose Oderan take physical form as familiar companions and guide them through the course of life. Most remain here, bound to the threads of their masters. Ursoh will not hurt you dear. After all you are Arthur the Bear." Arthur nodded numbly. That did make some semblance of sense. In certain dialects of Breton and Welsh his name did mean 'bear'.

"What is our destination?"

"The lady's lake," said Ygraine. "But before we have much to speak about. The Pilgrim wishes me to impart to you the information you will need for the coming days. Let me begin by saying how sorry I am about Morgana. Your sister is so much like her father in that way. When she has become convinced of a cause or idea her beliefs cannot be swayed. "

"Her father?" said Arthur confusedly. "Gorlois was a rather mild mannered man if I remember correctly. She couldn't possibly have gotten that from him or her magic…" Ygraine shook her head sadly.

"No, darling, that is the point. Gorlois was not Morgana's father." Blue eyes widened. "Morgana is your half-sister." She paused for a moment. Arthur was grateful. He took a sharp breath. "Nearly a year after my death Uther laid with the lady Vivienne, the duchess of Cornwall while her husband was away at war. Both of them were lonely, and they found solace in one another." Bitter regret and a hint of anger sounded in her voice.

"When Morgana discovered this it enraged her and added only more fuel to her hatred of the king. Morgause is her half-sister, and the legitimate child of Gorlois and Vivienne. At an early age her magic began to show. Out of fear she was sent to Niumeh, the high priestess of the old religion, to be reared by one her own kind. When the sisters met their plans came together. Now the two of them wage war on Camelot and will do whatever it takes to bring an end to your father's reign." Her eyes moved to the ground.

"Even conceive a child born of incest, bound by the chains of time, fated to kill his own father." She looked up. "I am sorry my son. Though your memories of last evening have been distorted the repercussions will follow you for the rest of your days."

"I know that you are with child," The Pilgrim had said. Vague, passionate memories filled his mind. Gwen sauntering seductively out of the tent in only a silken shift. Her eyes filled with lust and desire. The throbbing of the heart in his chest as she kissed him. Feelings of a summer breeze against his skin as she relieved him of clothing. Gold in Guinevere's irises, foreign and out of place. Magic.

"No-" he stammered as the realization washed over him. He spun round to face his mother. "No," he repeated feebly, pleadingly. Ygraine slowed their pace to a stop and pulled him into an embrace full of futile but well intended comfort.

"Morgana lay with you last night Arthur," she whispered.

"The prophecies speak of this union. 'Sister boar's lies lead amiss from true. Bloodied womb stained a scarlet hue,'" she quoted. "She is pregnant with your child. During the weeks that followed the siege on Camelot Morgause poured over tome after tome of magical lore, searching desperately for a way to bring about the end of Merlin, and of you. Merlin is Emrys, and no magic she knew was capable of defeating greatest warlock who has ever lived or will live. She found more than she could have hoped for in the shortest of prophecies. 'From Pendragon witch and Pendragon heir, the darkest of powers shall flare. From witch's womb and heir's seed, the heir's demise will come indeed.'" Her eyes had become glassy with tears. She pulled away and looked him in the eye.

"Together you and she have sired a bastard son, who is foretold to be your ultimate undoing. You have met him already. Though I doubt your previous meetings have brought about any warm emotions between the two of you." A full minute passed in silence before Arthur could properly process her words. Their meaning pulled at his brain like a pair of smiths' tongs. White hot they tugged at his waning sanity and perception of reality. Branding his psyche with confusion.

"I've already met him?"

"Indeed," Ygraine agreed. Taking his hand she set them once again walking down the path. "He was chained down the stream of time before his conception. Morgana is his mother, though she will not give birth to him. Guinevere will explain," she said at his bewildered expression. "Her father is with her now, telling her of such things. However for us there are far more pressing matters. The day will come when Mordred shall face you in battle, but for now do not dwell on him. We have arrived."

"Mordred!" Arthur exploded. "How is that possib-" a soft skinned hand covered his mouth.

"Not now dear, we have arrived." The forest had thinned to only a few sparse stand of oak and birch. Still no sunlight showed. The path opened up to the muddy shore of a lake dotted with water lilies. High above stars glittered like diamonds in the sky and a half moon cast a curtain of yellowish light over the water's black surface.

Ygraine lifted a hand to point. At the lake's bottom a great light burst into life. Shining white it began to take the shape of a sword. Something about it looked familiar to the prince. As a warrior he'd wielded a large number of weapons', but he felt like he'd known it his whole life. His free hand twitched with the wish to take it up, and wield it the way it was meant to be wielded.

"It is with that sword that your destiny will be achieved, and the Knights of the Round Table will be founded. The guardian spirit of this lake is waiting for you Arthur. Now go to her." Before Arthur could say anything his mother rose to the tips of her toes, kissed him on the forehead, and gave him a little shove. Despite his usually strong stance Arthur found himself stumbling backward into the lake's shallow depths.

Beneath the water his eyes opened. Suddenly he was no longer in the shallows. Slowly he floated downward. Trails of bubbles and schools of murky colored fish wisped by his field of vision. The sword shaped beacon of light shone only brighter. A hand emerged from the tangle of reeds that covered the bottom, and reached forth to grasp the glowing hilt.

Instantly the form of a man, crowned with stars stood with the weapon raised high. A dozen figures appeared around him, sending ripples across the image. Standing shoulder to shoulder the warriors stood in a circle, around a golden coin. A table. The crowned figure cried to the heavens and with a flurry of hands and the hiss of steel his companions drew their weapons.

"For Camelot!" Arthur heard his own voice roar. The words echoed in his ears as the image faded, and he plummeted into nothingness.

LINEBREAK

Gwen's breath caught in her throat as the hall of empty painting vanished. Like the flame of a spluttering candle, one moment it was there, the next it was gone. In the same instant the hall was replaced. Blinding light stung at her eyes. At once they were slammed shut.

Harsh smells of smoke and sulfur filled her nostrils. Impulsively she coughed, trying to force the tainted air from her lungs. Hunching forward, hands on her knees Gwen spat and spluttered. Even so, the black tastes were still thick in her mouth.

Unfamiliar noises rang and honked in all directions

Tom gave her hand a light squeeze.

"Look up Gwen. Your senses we'll readjust quickly enough. Look where we are."

Obeying Gwen tilted her neck upward. Beneath their lids her eyes had begun to adjust to the light. Slowly she opened them, raising a hand protectively above her eyes. She and her father stood beside a busy road full to bursting with people. To a citizen of Camelot's capital this wouldn't seem strange. Normally. However this particular road was unlike anything either of them had ever seen before.

Horseless wagons made of steel hurtled by at impossible speeds. Black fog snorted out of small metallic tubes built into the back of the wagons. How anyone could possibly breathe that in Gwen couldn't decide.

People dressed in strange garments walked by on platforms of stone, raised inches above the ground, at the roads sides. The clothes themselves were composed of alien materials of colors more varied and vivid that not even the wealthiest noblewoman could afford the dyes necessary to produce them.

Women were dressed in breeches dyed sky blue that conformed tightly to their bodies. Other girls wore skirts so short that they only reached the mid-thigh region of the leg. It was down right scandalous.

Towers of glass shot out of the ground at intervals. Beams of sunlight bounced of their surfaces like colossal mirrors, creating a wall of reflected light bearing down on the horizon. Gwen's mouth dropped.

"W-where are we, Daddy?" she whispered. Tom grinned, and spread his arms wide.

"The Pilgrim's memory of course. Welcome to Camelot's capital more than a thousand years from now. The year is nineteen hundred ninety seven, the day May third, a single day after the fall of one of the most dangerous dark warlocks of all time. The Pilgrim's work in this era is done, and now he will return to the time of his birth." The future? Gwen thought. No, that was impossible. No magic could bend time. Could it?

"How is that possible?"

"The Pilgrim was born in our era of time, Gwen. In fact the date of his birth falls nearly three months after your own. For a thousand years he lived through the ages. And now he is returning, by using the chains that transcend time. These are mystical chains, forged of a metal that no amount of hear can melt. Across Albion and time they are scattered, hidden in the oldest and most sacred of places. They bind moments in history together, and when the sand that fills them runs out, they tug on one another, taking with them the creature of magic nearest it. It is in this way that the Pilgrim travels through time, and it is the way that the bastard will be born before his time to reap vengeance on his father."

"Ah," said Tom, pointing, "There he is now."

Pulling her eyes away from the wonders of the future Gwen turned to peer across the busy street. Indeed, there he was.

Dressed as he was, in the strangest mixture of clothing from both the past and future, the Pilgrim stood out like a sore thumb. He wore his floppy pointed hat and the outermost layer of his gray robes.

Beneath that however he wore a socking pink button up shirt with half the buttons mismatched, a pair of baggy yellow breeches secured with a black leather cord, and bright red shoes laced with white strings in the front.

His beard was tied in a single long braid that fell down his front and a tanned leather bag hung loosely around his shoulders. As he walked the old man whistled a jovial tune, tapping his staff with the rhythm. Eyes turned curiously as he passed. Some people pointed. Others laughed. Apparently, thought Gwen, such eccentric dress was thought amusing in this time period.

"Blimey, what are you wearing mate!" yelled a scantily clad girl.

The Pilgrim seemed to take no notice of this however and there was a spring in his step as he rounded the corner out of sight.

"Let's go," said Tom. Taking his daughter by the wrist the dead blacksmith led the two of them directly into the road. Gwen screamed and tried to lunge out of the way of the herd of oncoming wagons of steel. But the metal vehicles passed right through them.

"Nothing to fear here Gwen," Tom told her, pulling them the rest of the way across the street. "We're in the Pilgrim's memories. Nothing here is real, but simply the shadows of what was, and I suppose in this case will be. Now we've got to follow him right quick if we're to see what we're meant to. A chain is about ready to pull."

Heart pumping madly in her chest Gwen fought to gulp down a breath. Nervous sweat coated her brow. Her fingers trembled nervously. What kind of future was this, where one could be killed simply walking into the road?

They rounded the hard paved corner and found themselves at the entrance to a huge grassy pavilion enclosed by a wrought iron fence with a heavy looking gate. The doors were swung wide open, and people trickled in steadily. Staked into the soft earth beside the gate was a whitewash sign with big red letters.

'NEWBERRY PARK': GATES OPEN DAWN TO DUSK'

At first glance the words looked English, and some of them were. But when Gwen examined it more closely she saw that it more closely resembled a jumbled mix old Breton and Latin than English. She would have stayed longer to ponder this, but her father's tugging at her arm continued, and she was dragged through the gates.

"I'm sorry Gwen, but we haven't much time." Gwen frowned internally. As wonderful as it was to see her father again the lack of answers was becoming rather irritating. If she was here to learn about the Pilgrim, to learn information that would help protect Camelot from whatever danger it was that threatened it, then why wasn't she being told anything?

The pavilion itself was rather beautiful, a large block of land several miles in perimeter with a sweeping field of grass to the north and a thin patch of forest to the south.

Children, both boys and girls frolicked in a rectangle of grass sectioned away by painted white lines, dewy, kicking a black and white checkered ball between them. At either end of the rectangle stood large nets supported by steel frames.

A cobblestoned path ran from east to west alongside a placid little stream that tumbled its way over the low hilly terrain. The Pilgrim took this path into the shade of the trees. He passed among the trees and rapped his knuckles against a trunk. For a moment he waited, listening. The dull thud vibrations left by his knuckle faded quickly. When no other sound was heard, he moved onto the next tree.

For several minutes this continued, until the he came to a rather dead looking oak tree. It's branches scratched upward at the sky like talons and it's bark had decayed from a hearty brown to a sickly black. A knuckle tapped at it, but instead of a dull thud came a chime. Gwen jumped. A shiver crept down her spine. High and melodically, the noise was unlike anything she'd ever heard.

Like a hundred musical notes sung all at once and in perfect harmony.

The Pilgrim laughed. Practically jumping for joy he tossed his bag aside and bopped himself over the head with his staff. Rainbows of color exploded around his body and in an instant he stood proudly in a full set of gray robes.

Kneeling down he pried at the tree's bark. Gingerly he peeled it back, licking his lips in concentration. Gwen stepped forward for a closer look. Just beneath the outermost layer of bark a two interwoven characters were etched into the wood.

A capital letter A with what appeared to be a horseshoe wound through its central cavity. Though she'd received no formal education during childhood Gwen recognized them immediately to be Greek.

"Alpha and Omega," the Pilgrim whispered to himself. "The beginning and the end. I'm on my way home Emrys, Artorius. It's been far too long." He tugged sharply on the bark.

SNAP!

Webbed cracks sprung across the bark, weaving and spinning their way around the trunk.

SNAP!

The cracks twisted back together in an elaborate pattern, in their wake carving series of lines. More snapping sounded as the bark crumbled and fell into a cluttered pile on the ground. Sawdust and bits of wood flew as the lines were carved. And when they cleared the image of a ghostly hourglass shone on the trees naked surface. Gwen's jaw fell open. Gaping.

It was beautiful.

Though they'd found their place the cracks still seemed to be moving. The image of a serpentine chain dances over the hourglass, as if it were holding it there. Bound. The Pilgrim raised his staff. He considered the spectacle before him, watching it swirl and simmer. Then, taking a breath, he pressed the tip of his staff to tree.

"Chronis,"

Suddenly the twisting chains burst from within the wood, turning from hazy moving lines to silver coils that writhed in the air before ensnaring the old man in their tight embrace. The Pilgrim didn't blink. Nor did he flinch. He knew how the chains worked and what to expect from them. He smiled, and the chains pulled him into the stream that transcended the ages.


	11. Chained Prophet

Gwen watched wide eyed as the world dissolved around her. The trees of the pavilion became a brownish haze. The towers of glass of the surrounding city melted away, and the sky's shining blue grayed and faded. Gwen blinked. And the world was gone. A rush of sound and light flashed by. Chains danced across her line of vision.

Suddenly she stumbled forward. Her feet found even footing. She looked up, and gasped.

She stood among the square stone pillars of Camelot Castle's courtyard. Empty barrels of wine were stacked neatly against the walls. Ornate carriages bearing the crests of various noble and royal families were parked off to the side near the drawn gates. A full moon hung in the sky surrounded by clusters of shining stars. Lights shone in the castle windows high above, and the sounds of nobles chattering in the banquet hall drifted downward to her waking ears. Tom, who still stood beside her, spoke.

"This is Camelot castle, during the reign of King Vortigern a century ago." He pointed to one of the carriages. Unlike the others it was made of bare wood with no paint. Three interwoven leaves were carved into its door. A Druid carriage. The Druids were here. "It was mere minutes ago that the Druid, the Weaver sang the prophecies before the king. Though Vortigern held them in contempt the Pilgrim was there to record them. From here he must harness the chains one more time to reach our present, almost anyway." He pointed again.

The castle doors creaked open and the Pilgrim emerged. In his arms he held the form of a tiny girl no older than six with a pale yellow egg clutched to her chest. Tears stained her cheeks. She trembled, sobbing into the elderly man's robes.

"Shhhh," he whispered, stroking her hair soothingly. "It's alright my dear. It's alright." Gwen felt her face soften. She had always loved children, and seeing one so distraught tore at her heart.

"I don't know what happened!" she cried. "My magic just took over. I couldn't see anything, couldn't breathe, and then I was singing….Voices were in my head, whispering me things," She trailed off, sobbing.

"What you sang was not merely music, Arianna, but prophecy. Foretelling's of events profound and holy yet to come. You are the next Weaver of the Druid people." Gwen gasped. This little girl was the Weaver, the one who had given the prophecies?

"I-I spoke the future?" the girl, Arianna, asked feebly. The Pilgrim nodded.

"Indeed my dear." He nudged the leather bag that hung down his back. "I've written them down for you if you wish to see them later. You'll find them rather interesting. Though it will take time for you to understand what they truly mean. Prophecies will come at random throughout your life, along with a variety of other gifts. I can help you to control them. Would you like that?" Arianna nodded.

"Excellent!" the Pilgrim laughed. "Come, come let me show you. It's rather simple when you get the hang of it." Setting her down the Pilgrim led her to a nearby pillar where they sat cross legged side by side. He reached into his bag and pulled from it a gilded hand mirror. The glass was cracked around the edges, but it would do.

"Have your magic instructors taught you to make a flame?" again she nodded. Casting a simple fire spell was considered the most basic of magics. She cupped her hands together in her lap.

'Agnis" a flame bloomed into life above her palm.

"Very good," the Pilgrim complimented, raising the mirror so that the flames flickering light refracted off its glassy surface. "Now whenever you start to hear the voices or feel that you're losing control of your magic, create a flame and hold it to this mirror. The reflections will allow you to see the words rather than hear them. They shall become visions."

"Visions?" said Arianna, her curiosity more than piqued. "I'll see the future?" she sounded excited. The Pilgrim chuckled.

"Bits and pieces of it yes. But be forewarned my dear, the gift of foresight is a mixed blessing. Seeing future events will not help to prevent future horrors or things we wish not to happen. However, we can learn from such visions. They can help us to prepare, to be ready, and in the end to pass our wisdom on to others for the good of the world…" he paused as if deep in reflection. Gwen thought that in that moment he looked far, far older. His wrinkles were more defined; the joyful determination usually in his eyes was nearly gone. When he did speak again his voice was quieter, more controlled.

"You are rather lucky in receiving your gift in a form that can be controlled. Seers see in many different ways. Other seers have the misfortune of seeing in their dreams. No mirrors can help them there. Many go mad, unable to discern between what is real and what is a figment of their imaginations. Long ago I knew such a seer. A very beautiful woman, with a keen mind and a heart full to bursting with love. She would do anything to defend those she called friends, and, perhaps ever more to defend what she believed. Then her visions started. Slowly the love became hate, and her perseverance became a fiery lust for power."

A long silence followed.

"W-what happened to her?" Ariana asked. She clutched at the Pilgrims sleeve fearfully.

"She died in the end. All mortals must. Consumed by darkness she waged a war against her own brother, and killed her own father…I loved her, you see, for the woman she had been, for the woman she could have been…I killed her that day, and she killed me as well." Regret was clear in his words. Tears welled in his aged blue eyes.

The young weavers arms wound around his frail form. She squeezed him comfortingly.

"You didn't have a choice. She must have really become evil then; someone like you would never kill a good person." He smiled painfully.

"It is very nice of you to say that my dear. But nonetheless I still wonder if I could have done things differently. Tis very difficult not to dwell on what was not and what may have been. Now let's get to your next lesson, I'm rather short on time, and I must leave soon." Sadness left his face. The twinkling in his eyes had returned. "You'll like this part."

He stretched his arms out before him, fingers spread, palms facing upward. Magic glowed in his eyes. Between his fingers appeared two shimmering threads, one a light evergreen, sprouting from Arianna's chest, the other silvery white, sprouting from the Pilgrims.

They drifted lazily in the air.

"These are the threads of life Arianna. They are the manifestations of ones own soul and destiny As the Weaver you will be able to touch and to see them with great ease. Go on, touch them. Such things can bring you no harm." Tentatively she reached forward and fingered the threads. They twitched at her touch and sparked with energy.

"With these in your hands you will see a persons destiny, feel life pumping within them. Reach inside yourself and find the power that lies within. Using your own thread, others will be made known to you." He pointed the egg in her lap. "When your familiar hatches she will be able to help you. I must depart from you now my dear." As he stood the threads disappeared. Arianna leapt to her feet.

"Will I see you again?" she asked desperately.

"Well of course dear." The Pilgrim smiled. "But it will not be for a little while. A hundred years or so. Now don't fret. For people such as us a century isn't long at all." Newly formed tears filled her face.

"How will I know your coming? When will I know to be ready?"

"When you receive a vision of a boy with peculiarly large ears. It is then that you will know that the prophecy is being fulfilled. Until we meet again, my young friend. Nansi Bobi." Green mist puffed in his hands. Arianna fell forward, dead asleep, into the Pilgrim's waiting arms. He carried her to the carriage and lay her comfortably on the padded seats. From his bag he withdrew a stack of papyrus scrolls, rolled and sealed, and placed them on the girls heaving chest.

All business now, he closed his bag and stalked over to a nearby pillar. Here was where he leaned his staff earlier in the evening.

"Chronis," he jabbed at the pillar with the staffs tip. Concrete pealed itself away from the pillar, revealing the bright another bright hourglass that held the chains of time.

"There's more than one of them?" Gwen asked her father.

"Of course. There are dozens spread across history. They bind moments together. Now our old friend here has a need to be in another time."

The silver chains unfurled themselves from the pillars depths. Again they wrapped themselves around the Pilgrims body, and the world shifted.

Gwen felt her breath catch in her throat. Rushes of light and color roared passed her.

"We're home," said Tom. They stood in a crowded dirt streets of Camelot's capitol. Peasants laden down with baskets of fresh produce hobbled towards the markets. Stableboys led horses by the bridle to be watered. Children chased one another around their protesting mothers legs Gossiping girls giggled madly as soldiers in dashing red capes strode by. The summer sun showed that it was around noon, the heat of the day at its peak.

"I'm off, father!"

Gwen spun on her heel to see herself, wearing a robin's egg blue dress step out of the smiths workshop with a basket of perfectly folded clothing secured under her arm. She was headed off to work for Morgana. This had been her routine since she was just eight years old.

"Have a good day sweetheart!" the memories Tom yelled from within. Gwen turned to the version of her father that stood beside her.

"This is one year in the past Gwen. Very recent and very important."

Right on cue the Pilgrim padded out of a nearby alleyway. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, and stepped into the workshop. Gwen and Tom followed.

"Hello my good man," said the Pilgrim cheerily. Memory-Tom looked up from the anvil where he was shaping a pair of horseshoes. "I was told you're the towns blacksmith."

"You were told right," Tom replied. Removing his apron and placing the shoes in a nearby barrel of water to cool he gestured the elderly man out of the shop and into the living space. They sat across from one another at the table. "What can I do for you? I've got my backed up work out of the way so I'm open for new projects."

"Excellent," said the Pilgrim. He reached into his bag and took out a large scroll.

"You took work from him? Why didn't I hear about any of this?" Gwen whispered harshly to her non-memory father.

"I was told not to," he replied simply. "Just watch."

The Pilgrim unfurled the scroll and spread it out across the table. Penciled in perfect detail was a crown. It was a perfectly round circulate of cold with nine points adorning its top. Each of the points was tipped with a star. On the circulate were engraved in bold capitol letters that spelled out the words. MITHRAE INVICTO ARTUR URSAI NIANUE ETERNUS.

Memory-Tom stared at the image.

"What is this?" he asked slowly.

"Exactly what it appears to be. A crown. It will be needed for when the young prince Arthur takes his throne. The inscription reads 'Arthur the bear, for now and always.'" Seeing the bewildered look on the blacksmiths face he raised his hands. "Before you question my motives or my sanity, I ask you something. Have you seen the way your daughter looks at the prince, how he looks at her?" Gwen flushed a deep pink. "It is a fact that she will be queen one day. A great queen. Your blood will flow through the royal line, and Arthurs heir will bear your name. Now please, Tom, my friend forge the crown." Without waiting for a response he rose from the chair, placed a heavy sack of gold on the table, and made for the door.

"Oh yes," he said over his shoulder. "When you've made it place it in a small chest and bury it behind the workshop. Gwen will find it there. I'm sure I'll tell her where to find it eventually." With that he departed, leaving Tom gawking confusedly at the plans for the crown.

LINEBREAK

Deep in the heart of the crystal cave Merlin's visions began to shift and change. Gradually the gray colored images that flashed before him melted away, leaving nothing but a curtain of pitch black nothingness behind. Though he could see nothing, he could feel the flame flickering warmly above his palm. Like the light of sunrise breaking over the horizon the darkness was beaten away, replaced by the otherworldly glittering of the crystal globe.

However the violet stones were not the same as before. No longer did Merlin feel their sharp edges cutting into his knees. It felt as if he were floating. Suspended in midair. Around him the crystals orbited like the glowing cosmos against the night sky. Pure magic flowed from his core and set his nerves aflame. Gold filled the usually blue irises, and the entire cavern shook. As if connected by invisible strings the stones twirled in perfect synchronization.

They vibrated and chinked against one another. Merlin expected this to generate harsh scraping noises. But instead came music. Notes high and low, joyful and sorrowful reverberated around the cavern in a glorious song.

O Emrys in your crystal cave

Sang a voice both quiet and thunderous. Merlin had never heard the words before in his life. But a strange sensation ran through his mind, and he knew what the words were, and what they meant. Prophecy, sung long ago by the Weaver.

O Artorius in your hallowed halls

It was a sense of…knowing that filled him. Somehow, through the mixed and muddled facts and pieces of information he had, he knew. The specifics of events were blurred. He did not know how or why, but he knew what had to happen. The cave was what gave him this knowledge. Within the crystals was stored the knowledge of what was, what is, and what will be. It was the crystals that told him what the words were, and what it meant to be Emrys. What it meant to be a prophet. That was what he was. What he was always meant to be.

Arthur's prophet.

Artorius the king and Emrys the Prophet.

Mordred was Arthur and Morgana's sun, chained back in time to be bore by another. Tension was rising in the Druid camp. Morgause now knew of Lancelot's escape with the dragon egg, and had formulated a plan to retireve it and shatter Albion's already frail political situation. Lowering himself to the ground Merlin forced the gold from his eyes.

More visions would come later. More knowledge. But for now the magical people needed their prophet.


	12. Kilgharrah's Message

Among Albion's legends very few had endured longer than that of the Isle of the Blessed. Myth told it to be an isle of glass shrouded in mists, where no mortal man may set foot. Here it was that a hidden gate to Avalon, the heavenly realm of glorified kings, lay hidden. Only with the aid of magic and a special canoe could one reach it. But once there, only God knew what you would find…Ghastly creatures from beyond the veil of the world, demons lurking in the shadows…

Well, this was only a legend after all and legends have the nasty habit of getting a few of the facts mixed up. The Isle of the Blessed did indeed exist, shrouded in mist, and could only be reached by way of magical canoe, but what lay hidden there were not beasts or monsters, but a temple. The island was the center of the old religion, and beneath it ran the labyrinthine corridors of the most sacred place in the Old religion.

It was in these ancient halls that the high priestess Nimueh had made her home, as well as where she had raised and reared her ward, Morgause.

At the temples dead center, just beneath the stone altar that marked the isles evergreen lawn, was a large circular chamber with a high domed ceiling and a long gilded table. Whispers no matter how discreet could be heard echoing off the aged stone walls, cracked by time, interwoven with cobwebs.

Morgause, the current keeper of the temple, sat in this chamber conversing tensely with a guest. Cenred, the fierce king of the south

"Let me get this straight, my dear witch," Cenred drawled calmly, rapping his fingers lightly upon the table's surface. "Not only did the one man who you say poses any threat to us escaped his own execution, but your agents allowed for a single unarmed man to escape with the most necessary component for this ritual you're proposing, and your witch sister, along with an entire contingent of my finest horsemen were defeated effortlessly by an old man brandishing a stick. Did I hear you correctly?"

Morgause's mouth tightened, becoming a thin line across her face. Her guests temper was growing. Cenred was known for his uncontrollable rage, which, combined with his swift blade, made him a more than formidable foe on the battlefield. Of course, the kings rage would do little against her. With a wave of her hand she could reduce him to ashes and cast those ashes to the wind. But for her plans to succeed she need him, needed his armies, needed his resources.

"Indeed, Cenred. Of course the details of the situation are rather hazy. My sister and I can only exchange so much information telepathically." This was genuinely true. Telepathy was a common gift among sorcerers, but to mentally transmit a message longer than a short sentence over a great distance was an exhausting feat, even for those as gifted as the sisters. They could contact one another, but could not engage in an in depth conversation.

"Of course!" Cenred barked a laugh. "Why have you summoned me here, witch? To suggest another of your ever so brilliant plans to conquer Camelot? I'm not interested. At this rate, it would be far simpler to just invade the city myself. You're free to watch of course, once I killed Uther you're free to mangle his corpse. I'm told your kind like to play with their food before eating. Is this true?" A vein twitched bulbously in Morgause's forehead.

"My plans will continue, Highness. I assure you this is only a minor setback." Cenred snorted derisively. He moved to stand, but with a quick flick of her wrist Morgause magically returned him to his chair.

"You need me, Cenred," she seethed darkly. "Trust me when I say that any attack you make on Camelot will be fruitless. Emrys still lives, and before his might, your armies would tremble where they stood. And besides, I've already thought of a more than suitable alternative to dragons blood. We've simply to await my sister's arrival and we will have it."

"Will you now?" Cenred sneered. "At our last meeting you told me Camelot was to have fallen by now. What make you so sure your 'alternative' isn't just as flawed as your original plan? And what of the old man? Surely someone capable of besting your sister can be considered a threat."

"Emrys has no knowledge of my alternative, and even if he did, he cannot stop it. As for the Old man, he can be dealt with later, whoever he is. Now if you'll excuse me I have a few preparations to make." Her eyes glowed gold and she snapped her fingers sharply. The slatted double doors on the rooms opposite side swung open.

"Enter," she called. Into the walked a young boy followed closely by a tall, shaggy haired man. The boy was cloaked in dark green; the man's face was the perfectly chiseled epitome of charisma. A sword hung loosely from his hip. In each of their arms was a strange assortment of components. A mortar and pestle. A glass calcinatory and a wooden retort. Jars of various herbs and liquids, bubbling strange colors.

"I believe you've met Alvarr. He's one of my more fervent supporters." Morgause gestured to the shaggy haired man, who gave a curt nod. "And this is my nephew Mordred. Alvarr looks after him." The boy stared. A strange shiver shot down the king's spine. It felt as if he were being pierced, scanned by the youths gaze. The pair deposited their load on the table, where Morgause set to work. She square the equipment neatly to one side and began mincing herbs with a small hand knife she kept in her boot.

"Nephew?" Cenred questioned, regaining his composure at once. "Isn't your sister rather young to have a child his age? Or do you have another sibling I've not heard of poking around somewhere?"

"I am Morgana's son. Her brother, Prince Arthur, is my father." said Mordred before his aunt could speak. Tinged with anger his voice wavered slightly, almost faltering, like it pained him to say the words. "Though she did not give birth to me, and he did not take part in my conception of his own will." Cenred stared.

"Magic is a complex and mysterious force, your highness," Morgause explained in a half singsong voice, barely looking up from her work. "Time can be bent, and the will of Gods can be altered for the right price. For you see my friend prophecy has much to say about my young nephews fate. One day, it will be he who brings about the end of Arthur Pendragon." Thick eyebrows shot up Cenred's forehead.

"Is he now? Well, admittedly I know nothing of prophecy. Is he your alternative?"

"No," Mordred answered for her. His voice was much deeper than one would have thought of a boy his age. "My mother brings the alternative with her. Patience, king. Fate cannot be achieved without careful planning first. " He looked to Morgause. "She is close at hand, aunt. The sentries spotted her horse a mile off to the south. She's approaching the boat as we speak." Morgause nodded.

"Very good." By now her strange mixture of herbs and liquids had been collected together in a thin glass beaker. From beneath the table she brought a large square of parchment which she unfolded on the table. It was a map of Albion.

The five kingdoms, along with significant landmarks such as rivers, mountains and lakes were labeled with black miniscule script, penned by a steady hand. Atop the map she placed a heavy leather bound book. Intricate Greek covered it's surface. It was a very, very old tome. Morgause turned back to Cenred, grinning.

"Allow me to explain. Before Emrys' execution, my sister tore at his face with her nails. Beneath the nail of her index finger remains the smallest amount of his dried blood. While the egg necessary to acquire dragons blood has alluded us, we do have just a pinch of dragonlords blood. The souls of dragons and dragonlords are tied together; they rub off on one another. With dragonlords blood, I will be able to summon not the hoards I sought, but a single demon, Agmaris with which we may draw out the eggs keeper into the open. Be patient Cenred. We're almost ready, and when we are, all of the five kingdoms will fall before us."

Cenred remained silent for a long moment. He asked.

"So now politics come into play?" he poked the map. "Very devious witch. You intend to turn the other three kings against Uther. To enthrall him in war, and take all of Albion by storm in the aftermath. Well done. Where do we start?"

LINEBREAK

Arthur sat slumped against the wall of Hunnith's cottage. Gwen, still deep within whatever visions she'd been set with, lay beside him; her head lay delicately in his lap. Absently he stroked her hair. After waking from his own vision, he'd found that he and Gwen had been moved inside out of the rain, for which he was grateful.

Night had fallen outside. Serene silver light fell in through the cracks in the wooden walls and the single narrow window. The moon must have been rather bright that evening. Hunnith slept peacefully in the homes single cot, wrapped in hand sewn linens.

The Pilgrim sat against the opposite wall, snoring faintly. Heavy white bandages were wound around the elderly gentleman hands. His skin sagged more than usual. He looked older. A small scroll of parchment was held unfurled in Arthur's hands, but he paid its looped words little mind, they meant little until Gwen was awake.. His thoughts were in other places.

'My father is nothing by a lying, hypocritical, psychopathic murder.' The thought rang through the prince's mind again and again. A great many revelations, infused with wonder and magic had been revealed to him over the last twenty four hours. But of all of them, the sins of his father were what gnawed and tore at his soul.

Rage boiled beneath his skin. Pure unfiltered anger threatened to burst from his every pore. Raw emotions flowed through him like never before. His hands trembled. Hopeless tears tumbled down his cheeks.

His conception by magic.

His mother's death in exchange for his birth.

Morgana's illegitimate conception by the wife of Gorlois', Uther's closest friend.

The great purge, and the death of thousands of men, women, and children.

All these things had one thing in common. They were all brought about by his father's sins, his father's terrible misdeeds.

Part of him had hoped against hope that Uther was simply misled in his persecution of magic, that he was simply wrong, and could be persuaded of his faults.

But it was not so.

He had turned to magic to conceive an heir, inadvertently signing the death sentence of his beloved Ygraine. And rather than taking responsibility for his own actions, rather than blaming himself for what he did, he blamed magic itself. The Rebel sorcerers who had threatened the kingdom so many times had been right all along.

Nothing could justify what he had done. Nothing could excuse it. How many had he condemned to die to ease his guilt? Did Uther truly believe the death of his wife, one woman merited genocide, that the supposed actions of one proved the entire group evil?

No king should ever think in such a fashion. Not ever.

As these thoughts ran rampant in his head, Arthur felt his last of his respect for the man who had raised him fade from his heart. In its place remained only the tiniest fragment of unconditional love. The feelings a son has for his father are hard to destroy entirely, and even with the proof right before him, Arthur wished none of it were true.

He loved and reviled his father in the same instant. Above all he wished none of it were true. But it was. Then and there he decided. Whenever it was when he would return to Camelot, whether he would be returning to seek the refuge of home or to rally the kingdom against his sisters onslaught, he was going to confront his father.

"He has to be stopped," he muttered aloud.

Arthur shook his head jerkily. He looked down at the scroll in his hands. It was a short letter, written relatively neatly but the penmanship clearly showed that the writer had been in quite a hurry.

The words were clear and concise. No hidden riddles or metaphors cluttered the page. Simply a set of direction and a quick farewell. That was it. Just then Gwen stirred. She yawned and her eyes flickered open.

"Guienevere," Arthur said, smiling down at her. Pink blush filled both their faces. Very rarely were they allowed moments to be tender such as this, or to express their feelings openly. Before she could reply he'd placed the scroll in her hands. "Read this." Slightly flustered, she sat up, and read.

Dearest Arthur and Guinevere

If you are reading this letter it means several things. Firstly, that you've woken up from your visions. I hope you enjoyed the time you had with your parents. Know that though parting with them has brought you great sadness, you will be with them again one day. Secondly, it means that I am asleep. I've been wondering, do I snore? I'd thought I'd cured that, no matter. Thirdly, and most importantly it means that an event of great significance has taken place.

Merlin has taken his place in the crystal cave. He has embraced Emrys, the child of light, the prophet he is meant to be. As to why I am sleeping, my power has all but left me. Age and time have caught up with me at last, and my death fast approaches. Do not fret over my health; I have always know this day was coming. Merlin is the prophet of his people, and as such the mantle must pass from me to him.

The time of destiny is upon us my young friends. Your visions will show you the way. Arthur, the lady awaits you with the sword, and Guienvere, you will find the crown buried just behind your home. We all have our parts to play in history, and now the two of you must play your parts. You'll find good horses tethered just outside Hunnith's cottage. Before my power faded, I was able to provide a little boost to their hooves. Off with you then, good luck.

All my love

The Pilgrim

PS: You may want to look up in the sky. Merlin has taken on the knowing that comes with his role, and as such, his star shines bright.

"I missed the post script before," said Arthur. Exchanging a look, the two of them rose from the floor. Gwen creaked the door open. The apir gasped. Shining in the night sky was star, shining bright as the sun. Translucent ribbons light trailed around it, making it not into a simple star, but a symbol. The Prophet had awakened, and now the king would seek his weapon.

LINEBREAK

"So," Arthur began, swaying awkwardly in place beside one of the two dapple gray horses the Pilgrim had left them. We're separating then, aren't we?" The light of rising sun shone dimly on the horizon. Cool morning air mixed and mingled with the damp dew that soaked the thick grasses. Morning had not fully broken, and the residents of Ealdor had not yet risen for the day, but the Prince and the handmaiden were wide eyed and ready. The snores of men could be heard through the flimsy walls of the houses.

Worn leather bags filled with the essentials were clipped to the animal's saddles. Atop Arthur's was clipped his sword, sheathed and freshly polished.

Gwen nodded halfheartedly.

"Yes. At least I think so." She whispered. Hunnith's patched travelling cloak hung about her shoulders. Dawn had come quickly after their waking during the twilight hour between night and day. For what seemed like endless hours they'd sat together, watching in awe as the great silvery star passed across the sky.

It was then that they told each other of what they'd seen in their dreams. Their visions. Quickly they'd decided that the Pilgrim had plans for both of them, and those plans required that they go in opposite directions. Arthur needed to find a lake with a sword at the bottom, protected by a mystical woman. Gwen needed to find a crown made by her father, requisitioned by a time travelling warlock. With these objects, Arthur would be king, crowned in stars, armed with the power to rule all of Albion.

Enclosed in the Pilgrim's letter had been a hastily drawn map. Though it included no intricate destinations, it told Arthur that his destination lay to the north, far past the ocean of trees that covered the landscape.

Despite all that had happened to them in the last several days, or perhaps because of it, neither of them found the recent revelations about their elderly friend to be unbelievable. In fact, they believed them all, with all their hearts. The Pilgrim was a time traveller. He knew things beyond the knowledge of mortal men. And above all, his goals were those of a higher power. Some greater being, perhaps even God himself, had set him with the task of making sure that they succeeded. That the prophecies he sang of were fulfilled.

"We could just wait, and go together," Arthur suggested. Gwen shook her head.

"I want to but…this I think we have to get this done as quickly as possible. It feels…urgent, that we go now." Arthur nodded. He had the same feeling. A knot of deeply rooted anxiety churned in his stomach. They needed to get this done. Questions and detailed explanations, which seemed now to be never coming, would have to wait.

"You're right, of course. I've left a note for Leon and the others with Hunnith, it will explain almost everything, and it tells them to wait here for our return. We'll meet back here, alright?" She nodded her agreement. There was no time for real plans to be made, only time for haste. They let their horses bridles fall slack, and they came together for a departing kiss. Fleeting happiness flooded through the princes body. The feel of her lips on his, the warmth of her embrace, were almost enough to drive away the sad anger that stained his soul. Once he had the sword what would he do?

The Pilgrim could offer him no more guidance now that he lay apparently on his deathbed. Was he to find Merlin? And if so, where? A whole minute later they parted, foreheads touching, blissful smiles pulling at their mouths.

"I love you, Guienvere," he said quietly.

"And I you," she breathed back.

"Be safe," he told her. "It would probably be best if you kept your hood up in the city. No doubt my father is wondering about Morgana's disappearance. He'll have you brought in for questioning if you're seen."

"Shouldn't he…be told, about Morgana I mean?" She knew how he'd answer before she'd even asked. Yet she still asked it. She had to know, for deep inside she still cared for her mistress, still saw her as a friend despite her betrayal.

"No," Arthur half snapped back. Bitterness was clear in his tone. "At least not yet. I'll have to tell him myself, but even then it's doubtful he'll believe me." He barked a harsh laugh. "He'll probably think me enchanted. Perhaps he'll hang me just for insinuating my half-sister is a sorceress.." he trailed off miserably. Gwen remained silent. Nothing she could say could alleviate the clash of feelings Arthur felt. Nor could it truly soothe her own.

"Take care, Arthur. Be careful." He nodded, his face softening a single degree.

"You be careful too. We'll meet back here in three days, alright? That should give us more than enough time." She nodded one last time. They pulled broke away fully and mounted their horses. The leather of the stirrups creaked with their added weight. The animals shifted a few steps, eager to set off.

Together Arthur and Gwen walked their horses to the center of the village. Here they exchanged one last parting look of longing, before cantering away in opposite directions.

Arthur leaned low against the saddle. Familiar smells of horses and leather filled his nostrils. As the mount piucked up speed the wind whipped through his blonde mane, stripping any lingering tiredness from his face. Flicking the reins he steered towards the forest path at Ealdors northern most edge.

'This horse is rather fast,' he thought idly. 'Did the Pilgrim do that, is this what he meant in his letter?' The thought drifted away almost instantly, for at the same moment the horse leapt over a small mound of compost left over from the previous days farm work. Grunting Arthur dug his heels into the dapples sides.

The horse gave a loud whiney. A glittering aura of color, greens and reds and gold, sparked into life. Arthurs eyes slammed shut as the aura surrounded the horse. Popping noises bubbled in the prince's ears, and a great rush of wind roared past him.

Slowly, tentatively, Arthur allowed his eyes to open. He gasped. An awestruck expression, intermingled with fear, spread across his face. The horse had sprouted a pair of huge feathery wings. A Pegasus. The Pilgrim had transformed two regular horses into creatures right out of Greek legend, the mounts of demi-god heroes that were flown to the summit of Mount Olympus. Wait, two horses.

He spun round in the saddle just as Gwen screamed. She was just a speck on the horizon, noticeable only by the dark mahogany of her hair and the beating of her mounts angelic wings. Arthur leaned forward down the back of the saddle, across the pegasi's rear, cupping his hands round his mouth.

"She won't hear you, young Pendragon. Not from this distance. Especially with the wind and the clouds." The prince gave a star. Catching himself on the tight leather straps he caught himself before he went plummeting downward into the sea of green trees below. Somehow, without being scene, the gargantuan Kilgaharrah had settled into flight beside the Pegasus. His leathery wings cleaved through the white wispy clouds. His amber eyes glittered like jewels in the pink-orange sunlight.

"You!" Arthur yelled, spinning back round to face frontward. "What do you want?"

Kilgharrah chuckled.

"We meet again young Pendragon. And thankfully, under slightly better circumstances than before."

"What do you want?" Arthur repeated icily. In a flurry of steel he drew his sword, raising it shakily before him at the ready. Again the dragon chuckled.

"Oh put it away boy. I'm not here to fight you, I have no wish to fight you, and even if I did, I have been forbidden from threatening you in any manner." Eyes narrowing, Arthur lowered his sword and returned it to its scabbard.

"Forbidden? By who?"

"By the Pilgrim of course. He is rather persuasive in his arguments. Though his powers may be fading, his previous works of magic linger on for now. He has also forbidden me from raining fire down on Camelot, assuming you wish to speak to your father before his inevitable demise." Indeed, part of him did wish to speak to his father. While other parts of him wanted nothing more than to run Uther through like the tyrant that he was.

"I'll ask you one last time dragon. What do you want?"

"To deliver a message from the Pilgrim. He simply wishes to tell you to follow what you see as right, to wield your blade steadily, and to never lose your sense of justice."

"He told you this?" Arthur said skeptically. "He's hardly in any condition to talk at the moment."

"Oh I know that young Pendragon. He spoke to me telepathically." Swiftly he lowered his altitude half a dozen feet, beginning his steady descent. "I am off to collect him now. Death is nearly upon him, just days away I believe, and I wish to show him Albion one last time before he must perform his last enchantment. He is a very old friend of mine, you know."

"'Last enchantment'? But I thought his magic was gone," Arthur questioned. The dragon sighed. Genuine sadness showed in his ancient features, and if dragons could cry, then he was surely on the brink of tears.

"It very nearly is. Merlin has taken his rightful place as the prophet, surely you saw the star in the sky. And thus the Pilgrims magic, the very force that has kept him living for millennia has begun to fade away. Only enough of his once great power remains for one last spell." Arthur's eyebrows had disappeared past his hairline. The Pilgrim would cast another spell before he died….

"One last spell, to do what?" Kilgharrah smiled heartily.

"That is another thing he's forbidden me to do. Telling you what he intends. He believes you'd wish to stop him. But, no ones ever been able to stop him once he's set his heart to something. Of all people, I should know that." Arthur started to ask perhaps his dozenth question, when the dragon swooped under the Pegasus, and dove in the opposite direction.

"You will see him one last time, Arthur Pendragon!" he called over his shoulder of armor like scales. "I will make sure of that. And do tell Lancelot to take care of that egg, I have great plans for that dragoness!"

"Wait!" Arthur bellowed. But his call was lost in the wind, and the dragon did not hear.

When the old beast faded out of sight, Arthur settled into his seat. Firmly he wrapped the reins around his forearms. He didn't want to be falling off any time soon. Hours passed, sleep found his eyes, and the sun rose to its full golden glory.

Suddenly his mount jerked beneath him. It's black man slapped across his cheek, breaking him from his semiconscious stupor. the pegasi gave a wild gesture towards the ground, kicking its forelegs and butting with its snout. Carefully Arthur repositioned himself so that he could peer around his mounts neck.

Shimmering amongst the trees like a misshaped silver coin was the lake.

Sorry that this chapter isn't quite as long as my chapters usually are, but I felt guilty about not getting this out like three days ago. Expect a chapter about once a day for the next five days, as I'm on spring break. I'm really going to try and make them at least 2000 words, hopefully I can make them longer to finbally get the plot actually going somewhere, but I'll do my best. Next chapter Arthur reaches the lake, Morgause performs some rituals, and we get a boatload of medieval politics. Oh joy.


	13. Excalibur

The abyss is a realm of darkness beyond imagining. Fires dance coldly in the space between the worlds. Pits of ice filled. Rivers of blood. Horrors that haunt the nightmares of children and men alike made flesh. Demons inhabited these lands. Creatures of shadow, created by the shameful pride of the human race. Hubris. Desire. Lust. These drove demons forward to feed on the mortals of the world.

One demon in particular reared its head in delight. Threads of black hatred now linked him to a mortal anchor. A king. A host that would bind him to the physical plane. Around him the hordes of the damned quaked in fear. No man could destroy the Agmar demon. No man could harm him. Before his might, the armies of men would fall, and in wake of his gluttonous feast his brethren would be freed.

**LINEBREAK**

The Pegasus landed lightly on the lake's muddy shore. Beams of sunlight skimmed the lakes glassy surface, making the water sparkle with a serene sense of peace and holiness. Holy, Arthur decided. That was the word to describe this place. Reeds and thigh high grasses grew in tandem at the lakes edge. The trees that bordered the lakes enclosure were tall and robust. Beneath the surface schools of tiny fish swam rhythmically. This place was pure. Untouched by man's cruel industrious hand. If the gods had a dwelling place on the earth, then surely it was here.

Arthur pulled hard on the reins and slowed his mount to a halt. Each step the Pegasus made left an ugly footprint in the mud.

"Just like in my dream," Arthur whispered. "Exactly the same." And indeed it was. From the first tiny pebble on the ground to the last frond of overgrown foliage, it matched what the Pilgrim had shown him.

Pinking his way carefully around the flying horse's wing joint, the prince dismounted. A small groan escaped him as his boots made contact with the semi-solid ground. Mud filled the crevices of the finely tailored leather. Moisture seeped its way through his woolen socks to his feet. He absolutely despised having wet feet. It always made hunting, and walking general so very unpleasant. But it was done, so he would simply have to deal with it.

Taking the Pegasus' bridle he led it squelching through the mud to the forests edge. Using a piece of spare rope from his bag Arthur tethered the animal to a hardy pine. With this done he turned his attention to his purpose for being there. The lake.

Unlike any significant body of water he'd seen before, rivers, seas, and other lakes, it was entirely still. Not a single ripple broke the lake's perfectly smooth surface. Mystical forces were clearly at work. Natural magic old as time itself. A lady was the lakes guardian. That his mother had told him. And with the lake she guarded a sword forged for his hand. Hesitantly he sloshed down towards the shore.

_POP!_ Arthur spun around. As quickly as they had appeared, the horses recently grown wings vanished without a trace. The Pilgrim's enchantments worm off, Arthur thought. The former Pegasus looked rather disappointed. Having spent it's foal years firmly planted on the ground, flying had been rather enjoyable. Now it would have to carry its rider on foot. They would have to return on foot. Upon realizing this, Arthur let loose another groan. Flying through the air, his journey back to Ealdor would have taken hours. On foot, it would take days. Guinevere would mind herself in the same predicament when returning from Camelot. Apparently, their rendezvous had been rescheduled.

Pushing these thoughts aside Arthur turned back to the lake for a second time.

"_Arthur_._" _The voice was quiet. Barely more than a whisper. Caught off guard Arthur jumped, barely catching himself from falling into the much. A jolt of surprise rocketed up his spine.

"Who's there?" he shouted. Wildly he looked around for the source of the voice. There was nothing to be found. No lady, no signs of life at all.

"_Arthur," _the voice said again. _"Come to the lake. I have been waiting." _

"Are you the lady?" he asked. No doubt ably to any onlookers he would look to be a mad fool, talking to water in search of a woman with a sword. Perhaps he was mad, seeing as he w_as _talking to the water in search of precisely that.

"_I am," _said the voice. _"Step into the lake, Artorius." _

Throwing both caution and rationality to the wind, he obeyed. Arthur waded waste deep into the lake, taking each step with care. The water felt cool on his skin. Fish scattered with his movements, fleeing to the safety of deeper waters. Water lilies tangled around his limbs, though they broke away with the twisting of his waist. He stood there silently half submerged for several moments. Then it began.

At the lakes center ripples formed. Perfectly round in shape, they ringed their way outward towards the shores. Arthur gasped at what he saw next.

From the center of the rippling emerged a woman. Slowly, she rose from the waters, eyes closed, mouth hungrily gaping at newly found oxygen. The torn remains of a scarlet red dress crisscrossed her slender frame, covering very little of her pale body. Between the rotten threads were woven wet reeds. These covered her breasts, fanning round her hips. Though they concealed her nudity, the reeds only added to her sensuous appearance. This was a nymph, a wild goddess of beauty and desire. She opened her eyes and smiled at the prince. Gliding through the water like it wasn't there at all, she approached her guest.

"Welcome, Arthur," she said. "I am the lady of the lake, the guardian spirit of these waters. It's lovely to see you again. Last we met, the circumstances were… rather unpleasant."

"We've met before?" Arthur asked, schooling his face to remain calm. He had memory of ever encountering such a spirit in the past. The Lady nodded.

"We have. I was not always a spirit. Before I came to be here I was a mortal woman called Freya." The name sounded familiar to the prince, though he couldn't place where he'd heard it. "However you have never seen me in this form. My human form. Or at least what appears to be my human form. You had the displeasure of witnessing my cursed form. Do you remember fighting a winged panther?" Instantly the memories clicked into place.

"You're the cursed druid girl, the one who escaped from the bounty hunter!" It had happened more than a year ago, but he remembered it clearly. After a cursed druid girl had been brought into the city, she had escaped her captor. Blighted with terrible nightly transformations, the girl had become a monster, and had torn apart several innocent townsfolk. Together with Sir Leon he had cornered the deformed beast in the castle courtyard, and had managed to wound it before a stone gargoyle had fallen from the roof, and the panther had fled into the sky.

"Indeed. " She lifted a piece of fabric from her side. A puckered scar marred her skin. "Your wound struck true. I died from that blow. As the life left my body, Merlin brought me here, and sent my funeral pyre floating across the lake."

"Merlin? You knew Merlin?" That was where he'd heard her name, from Merlin. The manservant had mentioned the name in passing without elaborating. A knot of horrible foreboding suddenly filled Arthur's stomach. Freya closed her eyes, smiling in blissful remembrance.

"Merlin was the reason it took you so long to find me. He hid me from the guards. He snuck me food, I hope you weren't too angry with him for that. Even when he discovered my curse he did not abandon me. He offered to run away with me, to a place such as this," she gestured to their surroundings. "Where we could be free, together. He would have done anything to protect me, even if it meant abandoning his duties to you I…fell in love with Merlin those day, and he fell in love with me." The knot in Arthur's stomach exploded. Horrible guilt, rueful regret, was all he felt.

He had killed the woman Merlin loved. How had Merlin even been able to speak to him? Was the prophecies warlock truly so forgiving?

Of course, he hadn't known who she was. Hadn't know her relationship with Merlin. But the fact still remained. He had killed the woman Merlin loved. This was a sin that would weigh heavy on his heart forever.

This was made only worse by the fact that, if their positions had been swapped, and Merlin had killed Gwen, Arthur would never forgive him. No matter the circumstances. A kind hand cupped his cheek.

"Do not fell guilt over my death Arthur. In ending my life you freed me from the curse. Merlin holds no ill will towards you for it. He understands. I am happy here, in this lake. My job role as guardian suits me. Now, we must get to business. As nice as it is to talk, that is not why you are here." She withdrew her hand. "You are here for your sword." She took several steps back, and plunged her hand into the water. When she pulled it up a moment later, she held a shimmering sword tightly in her grasp.

With it laid across her open palms, the sun beams hit the blade, igniting it with golden light. Arthur stared in opened mouthed awe. Appearance wise the sword was hardly different than a soldier's standard long sword. But this was no mere soldier's weapon. This was the blade of a king. Despite having spent ages underwater it showed no signs of rusting. Glistening with water droplets, it looked newly forged.

"This is Excalibur, which in the Old tongue means cut-steel. I have named it as such, for that is what it will do in your hands." Her fingers traced the over the small curved words etched into the blade just above the guard. Squinting, Arthur could just barely make it out.

_Take me up_

Freya flipped Excalibur over in her hands, revealing three more tiny words on the blades other side.

_Cast me away_

"Whoever wields this sword is hereby and forthwith the rightful king of all Albion. Merlin had this sword forged for you and you alone. Tempered in Kilgharrah's fire, it has been made sacred. For more than a year it has sat at the bottom of this lake, at Albion's doorstep. Gods will is imbued within its metal, and Gods will shall guide your hand." Freya's voice grew quieter, more serious, with less grandeur. "Know that this sword is for you alone. In the hands of anyone else, it will bring only death, only destruction."

She lifted the sword, and placed it lightly on Arthur's right shoulder.

"Do you swear to use this weapon only for the cause of good, to fight for love, peace, and the welfare of all Albion's people." Arthur sank to his knees. The water rose as high as his pectorals. He thought back to his crowning as high prince, his naming as heir to Camelot's throne. A similar ceremony was now taking place, but Arthur knew that this ceremony, which took place not in a castle or palace but in the untamed wilderness, was of far more importance. How he knew did not know. The Pilgrim had sent him, and he had come.

"I do," he said with complete sincerity.

"Then I as the spirit of this lake and the keeper of Excalibur entrust it, along with all its power, to you Arthur Pendragon, king for once and always." Freya offered him the hilt, he took it.

The grip felt familiar in his hands. Warmth passed over his palm and into his fingers. He couldn't help but smile. Understanding flickered in his mind. Holding the sword, he felt whole. It was not a weapon forged of the elements, not just a tool, but an extension of his body, a part of his very being.

"Thank you, Freya. My lady." Arthur rose to stand. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome your majesty," Freya said. "Nothing could honor me more than to be the one to pass Excalibur on to you. Destiny has great things in store for you, Arthur. For you and Merlin both." Turning she pointed across the lake at a gap in the trees that would serve as an entryway into the forest. "Ride hard an hour in that direction and you will find him. He has become the prophet he is meant to be, but what is a prophet without his king? When you see Merlin, give him my love. I shall be seeing him again myself soon, I think." Arthur stared. Merlin was close by? This changed everything. Now he could return to Ealdor with Merlin, or at least word of him. Together, perhaps they could sort through the convoluted mess that their lives had become.

"Before you go, may I ask a favor of you?" Freya asked. Arthur nodded.

"Of course."

"When the Pilgrims time comes, when he dies…would you bring his body here to me?"

"You know the Pilgrim?" Arthur queried.

"I do. Merlin was the most important person to me during my mortal life. While the Pilgrim has, is, and will be the most important to me in my existence as a spirit. His life has been long, and he is tired. Here, perhaps he can finally rest. Will you bring him here, please?" Arthur hesitated. Having not fully accepted the Pilgrim was dying, he was reluctant to agree to such a thing.

"I will," he told her. He would. When the time came he would.

"Thank you, Arthur Pendragon. Until our next meeting." With her task done, the Lady of the Lake sank back into the water, fading from sight.

**LINEBREAK**

**Okay, another chapter done and I'm starting on the next one right now. Sorry if stuff isn't happening for you guys. For reviews, I'd like to make a request. How's my writing? If you could leave comments about that be great. I'd also like to apologize for infrequent updates. A guy on this site wrote a story twice as long, he started three months later than I did, and its already done. I feel real bad about that. Sometimes I just have problems getting myself to write. But for today, I have overcome my procrastination tendencies, yay! Happy reading!**


	14. Reunion

**Before we get started I want to ask you readers a question. Has this story gotten boring? I feel like not enough has happened yet, and that I'm losing peoples interest. Both my hits and reviews have been steadily decreasing, and it's starting to depress me. Please answer honestly, if you want, and above all enjoy. **

Merlin and the Weaver reentered the druid camp to find it fully alive with the energy of the morning. Smells of breakfast cooking, seared with the sounds of children's perennial laughter, gave the encampment a sense of familial warmth, which Merlin found rather pleasing. The newly awakened prophet carried himself with a new sense of purpose.

Since exiting the crystal cave, the sensation of knowing, of intuitively knowing beyond all doubt what was true, what needed to be done, had lingered on in his mind. There, yet not fully there. Simple facts, simple tidbits of information now peppered his mind.

The prophecies, all of them, along with their most basic of meanings, echoed like fading music in his head.

From the crystal cave, the crystal of Neatid had been mined, and it was from the cave that it drew its powers of foresight.

Morgause and Morgana had changed their plans, altered them to adapt to the newly formed situation. What they had changed precisely, he did not know.

Arthur was on his way to find him, with the fated blade in his possession, and once they were together the two of them would have to plan for the greatest battle Albion had ever seen. This realization both relieved and terrified him.

The Pilgrim, the mysterious old man who'd apparently been pulling the strings of both the young warlocks and Arthur's destinies from behind the scenes, was far more than he seemed. He was Merlin's predecessor, he had been Emrys the prophet, and now had passed the mantle onto him at the cost of his power, and as a result, he now lay dying in a state of half consciousness. Yet, he was more than just a predecessor, but what more he was, Merlin could not say. Their life threads, one silver, the other colorless gray, had flashed before his eyes, and were bound up together, twisted round one another from the distant past to the far future. And, in the end, the Pilgrim would step back into the picture to aid them one final time.

Morgana's heart had been stained a sickly black, her once loving soul poisoned by the unimaginable, yet mostly justified hatred of her father. Her sister had taken her into her fortress, to corrupt and sway her to her cause, yet Morgana's hands were still stained with blood, her fingers equally tangled in the incestuous liaison of murderous vengeance. Pain struck at Merlin's heart, memories of an infatuation long forgotten resurfaced, as he processed this once fact, this one undeniable truth. When the day of battle came, it would come down to the two of them. They would face one another in battle and one of them, maybe both, would die at the others hands.

It was almost overwhelming, the knowledge, the potential for knowledge. But he knew that it was the knowing that made him the prophet, and was why the Druids would follow him. And they would have to follow him, for without the druids on his side he knew the coming conflict to be doomed to fail before it began.

As Merlin walked his gaze fell upon one of the campfires. Its light flickered dimly, reflecting off the surface of a brass pot full of freshly drawn spring water. In that moment he saw a glimmer of power in that reflection. The glimmering of a potential vision in the pots surface. He would be able to see in that way, to glimpse the future in the flickering of the flames. But no visions found him then, for the visions would only came when God willed it.

"Be wary, Emrys," the Weaver whispered, breaking him from his daze. "Not everyone in this camp will see reason. The people are divided. Many are conflicted as of what to do. Some doubt who you are, while others seek to follow Morgause's plans. Look around at them, and be ready to face them." He obeyed and peered observantly round the camp.

Indeed, the people were divided. Around the camp the men clustered together in groups, whispering to one another. Beside the large fire pits gaggles of women gossiped as they cooked.

And as he walked further into the camp, all eyes turned to face him. The whispered continued, sprinkled in with the summer morning breeze.

Merlin gulped.

Although the knowing still buzzed within him, anxiety bubbled and seeped through the cracks of his confidence. He was not a leader. Though he had a sly tongue and a jibing sense of humor that drove his employer mad, speaking before and swaying large crowds was one of his strengths.

Arthur was the leader. Arthur had been trained from birth the lead in preparation for his birthright. Arthur was born to be king, while Merlin was just a big- eared peasant with a divine fate. Merlin knew he would have to lead them, but how he would do so, he knew not

"Be not afraid, Emrys," said a voice much deeper than the Weavers.

He turned to see Verown and Lancelot enter the camp from a rough forest track that ran deep into woods heart, away from the roads. In his cloth sling Lancelot held the dragoness' egg. A jagged crack ran thinly across the glossy shell. When they reached his side, Verown looked him dead in the face, looking almost childlike with his sureness, and said again.

"Be not afraid, Emrys. You will not fail. I know it. Those who will not follow you are fools, and those who do not believe you are who you are, are mad. Remember Emrys, no matter the cost, I will fight by your side." Merlin stared back at him, flattered, but unsure what to say. Truthfully he knew little about the claymore wielding sorcerer. Having only met him mere days ago, and having spent most of that time both sleeping or receiving visions, he hadn't learned much about him beyond his almost obsessive belief in the prophecies, and in who they spoke of.

This was a man of undying faith, and, Merlin would not belittle him for it. Faith made men stronger, and gave them a sense of greater meaning.

"Thank you, Verown," he said honestly. He turned to Lancelot, who seemed not to of what Verown spoke. Of course, he had not yet heard of the crystal cave, or what his friend had received within.

"It's hatching, isn't it?" he asked, indicating the egg. Lancelot nodded excitedly.

"Starting to, yes! Verown said it'll take a day or two for her to come out fully. I can't believe this…"

He sounded very little like his usually collected self, but his excitement was to be expected. How often did one get to hatch a dragon, let alone one that was bonded to him on the spiritual level. The Weaver smiled demurely.

"Believe it, Lancelot. The two of you will be ruling the battlefield in no time at all. Hopefully sooner, rather than later." She turned Verown. "The time for Emrys to address the people is nearly upon us. Go and speak to your men, rally for his support amongst the hunters. If he is to succeed in the coming war against Morgause, he must win their loyalty." Verown nodded. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. A hand went to hilt of his claymore, the other tugged at his long brown braid.

"My brother is going to speak, isn't he Mother Weaver? He's going to speak as Morgause representative."

"It's likely," the Weaver conceeded. "Calm your temper, Verown. There is no time now for the two of you to quarrel like boys." His hand left the claymore's hilt, but the braid tugging continued.

"I am sorry mother Weaver. He just makes me so angry. How can he not believe the prophecies, now that Emrys has entered the cave and returned? Surely he must have seen the star in last night's sky."

"Perhaps he will believe," suggested the Weaver, but Verown dismissed it with a curt wave of his hand.

"He will not."

"You have a brother?" Merlin asked after a moment of heavy silence. "And what star?"

"A star shot across the sky last night, while you were off at the cave," said Lancelot. "Bright and silver, it lit up the night like day. It was so beautiful, I've never seen anything like it before."

"And I don't expect you will again," said the Weaver. "That star was a sign; marking Merlin's awakening as the prophet, Emrys, the child of the light. It was his star, and it shone with his power and glory." Lancelot blinked, only partially understanding. He'd heard Merlin referred to as Emrys, and as the prophet, but did not know for the life of him what exactly that meant. Would Merlin part the sea with the strike of a staff like Moses? Ride a chariot of fire to the heavens as did Elijah?

"Yes," said Verown, cutting bluntly back into the conversation. "I have a brother. Derin."

He pointed across the camp to a cluster of robed men huddled together at the mouth of a large tent, whose flaps were opened wide, revealing its contents of more than half a dozen bookshelves full to bursting with heavy tomes, and trunk after trunk of worn scrolls of parchment. At the center of the cluster sat a spindly looking man with narrows eyes like those of a rat. His shabby gray robes were pulled tight around his frame, and his mousy colored hair hung over his eyes like curtains. His lips barely moved as he spoke, one sliding smoothly against the other like a serpent's maw.

"Derin has been very vocal in his support of Morgause and her plans to unleash Oblivion upon Uther and those who follow him. She has convinced him of her philosophy, that those with magic have been given the divine right to rule over those without, that those who grasp at power, have a right to use that power as they will, whether it be to fill their lives with pleasantries or bring about retribution for the crimes of their enemies." He spat the words like poison, bitter on his tongue". Prophecy means little to nothing in his eyes; he views them skeptically as jumbled words spouting false wisdom, brought on by magic induced dementia. Even when the evidence is placed before him, he still denies the truth."

Trailing off, he moved to go. Shooting Merlin one last look, he said.

"Be careful of Derin, Emrys. He could potentially make things rather difficult for you. While he lacks my skill as a blade, he is a master of manipulation. His tongue is cunning, forked tween his teeth. Be careful, Emrys." With that he left.

Merlin watched him go, fingers trembling with nerves. The Weaver's hand found his shoulder, squeezing it softly.

"Come, the talks must begin soon."

**LINEBREAK**

An hour later Merlin stood at the mouth of the Weavers tent before the entirety of the Druid camp. Every tent had been emptied, every hunting party had returned, and every Druid eye watched as he stood ramrod stiff, his eyes shut, fingers drumming the sides of his legs. He hadn't expected to be so overcome such fright in the face of public speaking. In actuality, he was rather good with talking to people. But never before had the fate of the world depended on his words.

Behind him Lancelot sat cross-legged within the confines of the tent, occasionally peering out over the dragon egg in his lap. Verown knelt beside him, ready to step in if necessary.

The Weaver herself stood off to his right, arms folded over her petite body. She too seemed nervous. Her power as the Druids' leader could only go so far and it may not be enough in the long run. Sheening sweat formed on Merlin's brow. Dabbing at it with the sleeve of his robes, gulping for perhaps the hundredth time that day, he addressed the crowd.

"Uh, hello everyone. I'm Emrys, I suppose…" he said sheepishly. A few laughs speckled the crowd, though most remained silent, unfazed by his lack of speaking skills. For the moment at least.

"Though I prefer being called Merlin. It's the name I grew up with and I've always gone by it..." Again he trailed off. Someone in the crowd coughed. Taking a deep breath, Merlin clenched his fists tightly and gathered his courage.

"Okay, I know I'm not any good at talking like this, but I'll give it a go…I'm not really sure where to start. I suppose I'll just get to the point. I know each and every one of you begrudges Uther in your own way, and rightfully so. Over the last twenty years he's reaped unimaginable terror upon you, forced you from your homes, persecuted you for your beliefs, killed your wives, husbands and children. Morgause, the foster daughter of Nimueh the high priestess came to you offering vengeance and retribution.

But please believe me when I say that there's another way. What Uther did was wrong, unforgivable, but killing his people and threatening his kingdom won't free you from his tyranny! Arthur Pendragon, the king's son, is as good and noble a man as you'll ever meet. He will be king of all Albion one day, as prophecy foretells, and with his rule magic will return to these lands. So please, believe in him as I do, believe in the future he will bring about, serve his cause, and win your freedom once and for all!" his voice rang through the camp, loud and clear, filling every ear. The Druids said nothing, considering his words.

"So," sneered a voice, shattering the silence. "You truly are the prophet then, are you boy?"

Merlin turned to the voices source. As Verown had predicted, Derin was going to say his piece. Turning to face the crowd, Derin spread his arms wide.

"Do any of you truly believe this child from a no name village in Cenred's kingdom to be our prophet simply because he saw things in a cavern of shiny rocks? No doubt you have all heard whispers of his deeds, the slaying of Nimueh, the defeat of Singrid. For several years now his name has passed among our people, spreading false hope like wildfire through a patch of dry brush. Is the power he wields truly so great, or is he simply talented, gifted in the magical arts as any of us could be? Would our prophet, the one who will supposedly free us of from oppression, speak of offering mercy? Truly I tell you, Alvarr and Mordred were right in joining Morgause's cause. We have here with us the dragons egg she needs to accomplish her goals. I say we deliver it to her at once. As this supposed prophet said, Uther's crime is unforgivable." He turned to face Merlin directly. His face was a mask of hateful pride.

"You are not of our people boy. Never did you have to watch as Uther's troops burned the ones you loved alive. Either for practicing traditions that go back to before the days of the Romans, or possessing a natural gift they could not relinquish if they tried. Tell me, prophet, why should we follow your guidance? Can your supposed visions bring back the thousands the king has killed? Can they satisfy our thirst to be repaid? Can they even make the Prince Arthur, the _Artorious _the prophecies so lovingly coddles anywhere near as benevolent and accepting as you make him out to be? Answer me, _prophet_!"

Derin's friends shouted their agreement. Soon a chatter rose through the crowd. People began to whisper, gossip amongst themselves.

"Derin, you fool!" Verown bellowed. "You doubt the words of the Weaver? The one who has guided our people for more than a century?"

"I do, _brother_," Derin seethed back. "Unlike you, I use my mind to formulate my opinions, rather than trust the word of a child who has lived far too long."

The crowd grew louder, their whispers becoming yells and jeers. Some shouted in Derin's direction along with Verown. Others voiced their agreement. Hundreds of voices blended together, becoming an incomprehensible wave of noise that wash through the camp, popping ears to near deafness.

For a moment Merlin stood silently before the crowd. And then, filled with confidence, he raised a hand, and the words of a prophet found his lips.

"SILENCE!" he boomed. His magically amplified voice swept over the crowd. The shouting died away to chirping whimpers, and all eyes returned to the Prophet. Pointedly, Merlin turned to Derin.

"You speak with a lot of confidence Derin. Tell me, does you confidence come from your personal trust in your intelligence and your abilities, or from the fact that you are Morgause's pawn? A willing spy on this congregation?" Accusations flew wildly between the druids like arrows. Derin's calm composure did not falter.

"Me, a spy? That's ridiculous. While I do in fact support the lady Morgause and her goals, I am a loyal member of this community. Never would I ally myself with any outside force without the approval of the group." The crowd was silent. No one was sure what to believe.

"You are a spy," Merlin said. "You believe yourself to be above all the others here. That your intelligence has elevated you above the rest. That they're nothing more than 'primitive fools with no ambition.' I know that is how you feel."

Derin blinked. That had gotten his attentions. He looked dumbfounded. The boy had quoted his own thoughts, pulled from his mind his most secret feelings for his kin. His mental barriers were up. No one, not even the most powerful of sorcerers, could have slipped into his mind without him knowing. Even if they had, he would have felt it. Quickly his arrogant returned, though it was a faux one.

"You can prove nothing. You are no prophet, just a puppet who that little girl slipped into ceremonial robes for her own devices."

Then Merlin did something not even he himself could fully explain. Reaching out with the power he could barely control, he did what he knew, somehow to do. Doing a prophets worked, he opened Derin's mind to the people.

"_Deny it," _Morgause's voice shot unknowingly across all their minds. _"You're cleverer then all of them." _The druids gasped. Not only was Derin a spy, but he was whispering telepathic fragments to Morgause herself, and she was sending them back. So the prophet had revealed. A group of men seized Derin by the arms, breaking through his tight circle of scholarly friends with the utmost ease. Tightly they held him in place. He would not get away.

"Please," Merlin said to the crowd again. " Darkness cannot drive away the darkness, only light can do that. Morgause seeks to unleash on these lands a force beyond comprehension that, once it has had its fill of Uther will turn to you. So please, will you help me hide the dragons egg from evil hands? Will you stand with me and fight for what is good? And above all, will you stand with your once and future king?" he pointed the camps exit. The sound of approaching hooves could be heard, and second alter, Arthur came galloping into the camp.


	15. Before the Druids

Morgana's eyes fluttered open. She frowned. Afternoon sunlight poured into her chambers through the large window built into the temples southern wall, falling across her bed, draping it in sparkling yellow hues. Light shimmered down her glosses black locks.

Sitting up she pushed aside the jeweled coverlet that encased her body in luxurious warmth. Her much needed nap had lasted only an hour. The day was still far from over. By now Alvarr and Mordred had departed for Odin's kingdom with Cenred. Theyt were rather looking forward to watching the kings unfortunate transportation into an abomidibal host.

On the hardwood bedside table sat the silver bracelet that kept her seers dreams in check, kept them from overwhelming her. Morgana stared at it a moment, brows furrowed perplexedly.

For the first time in ages she had slept without it. And yet no dreams of the future had found her. This left the witch both confused and irritated.

Until Morgause had left her the bracelet she had been forced, night after night, every night, to endure the terrible images of what was to come. Some cruel, malignant deity whispered in her ear, taunting her with ghostly knowledge of the future that flayed her soul with unimaginable fear, yet she could not comprehend.

Always the images were shrouded in haze. Wrapped in shadows.

But now nothing had come. Now the god chose to withhold its bittersweet gift of insight. Morgana had hoped to see Merlin or Arthur, perhaps Gwen. To track their movement through the wild countryside, unravel theirs plans, and discover what exactly they knew of hers.

Above all however, she had hoped to see the Pilgrim. The old man who had defeated her with the greatest of ease, and who had passionately defended Arthur's life, proclaiming that it was his destiny, not hers, to unite all of Albion under his rule.

The nerve of that man, she thought bitterly. Her chamber doors creaked open. She turned.

Morgause swept into the room. Still dressed in the high priestesses robes, it was obvious to her sister that she was exhausted, drained of all energy by her days of solid work and preparations without rest. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her shoulders sagged, Nimuehs staff only half held in her hand. Shakily she reached into the fold of the robes and pulled from it an amulet. The pedant looked to be entirely of glass, and was filled with a pungent green fluid.

"It was difficult, but I found it, sister. An amulet of Neria," her voice sounded tired, strained. Morgana recognized the name from her studies. Neria, a minor goddess of travelling. She had seen such an amulet used once before, by the angry witch mother of sorcerer Uther condemned to death. When Merlin had poisoned her Morgause had used such an amulet to transport her to safety in the blink of an. Such things were rare, for only so many of them were made, and even fewer magic users possessed the skill necessary to use them. They granted a single feat of teleportation, concealed by a cloud of black mist.

Swinging her legs off the bed Morgana rose and strode to Morgause's side.

"You should wait for nightfall before using it. Make it seem to Uther that you'd been running all night," Morgause told her, pressing the amulet into her sisters fist.

"Here, come lay down sister, you need to rest." Taking her by the hand she led Morgause to the bed, where she laid back gratefully. "Rest well sister, I must go ready myself to return to Camelot." Pressing a kiss to her sisters forehead, she left the room. First she would have to appear dischevelled, maybe smear some blood across the her dress. Uther was going to be shocked when he saw her return alone with news that Arthur had been killed by Cenreds men. Wars would be declared. And when Uther left to conquer Cenred's kingdom Camelot would be left to suffer.

**LINEBREAK**

All eyes turned to Arthur as he reined in his horse, slowing to a trot, and then a stop, with a few quick tugs of the reins. New whispers passed through the crowd. Was this truly Artorious, the prophesied king? Their 'Once and future king' as this supposed Emrys had proclaimed?

He had predicted the blonde boys arrival perfectly. He'd ripped Morgause's telepathic words from Derin's head, and placed them in their minds without so much as a wave of the hand or muttering of an incantation. Was this boy truly Emrys the foretold? If not, he certainly had the power to be.

Straightening himself in the saddle, the Prince looked round the camp in a single turn of his head.

He spotted Merlin at once, standing before the crowd in the strange robes that befitted practitioners of magic. The tiniest of smiles tugged at his lips.

"Arthur!" Merlin called, grinning ear to ear, overjoyed at his master's arrival. "You came, I knew you would!" Indeed he had known, and as the prophetic powers granted to him by the crystal cave had told him, so it was.

Wordlessly Arthur slid from the saddle, and started towards the front of the camp. The crowd parted before him. Still the whispers continued. Derin, held securely by two men twice his size, shot him a glare of compete and utter loathing.

It was then that Merlin noticed that he carried two swords. One securely fastened to the horse's saddlebags, the other hanging from his hip. Merlin knew it from a single glance. The sword forged in Kilgharrah's fames and left to wait below the holy lake. Excalibur.

Another of his knowings had come true.

The crowd parted to let Arthur pass through. As he walked he looked at none of them. He kept his gaze forward fixed on Merlin. Eagerly said warlock moved to meet him half way spreading his arms in greeting

However Arthur's arms did not spread to meet his embrace. Instead he took one last step forward, and punched Merlin square in the jaw. He staggered back in shock. Saliva sprayed from his mouth with the force of the blow. The crowd gasped. Swords hissed from sheathes, preparations by the faithful, those who believed Merlin's claim as the prophet, to defend him.

"It's alright," Merlin insisted raising a hand. Nothing had been broken, but he would surely bruise.

"That's for lying to me all this time," Arthur barked. "I should punch you again. You're out of prison now, so you can't weasel out of your inevitable beating."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you have any idea what you put Guinevere and me through over the last two days? Dear God Merlin, dear god you're such an idiot. Couldn't you have explained at least part of this to me before?" This he nearly screamed, talking very fast.

Despite the pain in his face Merlin's grin returned. He should have expected this. After spending years hiding his secret, it was only right that his friend berate him for it. Arthur's face darkened. Quietly, but with the most serious of tones, he asked.

"Why didn't you warn me about Morgana?"

The grin evaporated.

"She deceived Guinevere and I, followed us to Ealdor to search for you, Merlin. She pretended to want to help you. She nearly killed us, and she set a legion of Cenred's men on your village to draw you out into the open, and both Guienevere and I would be dead if the Pilgrim hadn't been their to save us.

Why didn't you warn me that she'd turned traitor, that she had magic? You had time to tell me all of this before your execution. WHY didn't you tell me she was my sister? You had to have known!"

For a time Merlin remained silent. The Druids watched the confrontation wide eyed and wondered. Verown still grasped the hilt of his sword, eyes narrowed, and the Weaver seemed indifferent, as though she had resolved to let the new conflict resolve itself. The questions danced in Merlin's mind. Why hadn't he told him? With his own secret revealed there was no real reason for him to keep Morgana's, no real reason for him not to reveal her as an enemy of the crown.

Gingerly Merlin licked his lips. The answer he had was not one Arthur would like.

"Because," he answered honestly after a long while. "You wouldn't have believed me." Arthur gaped.

"I-I-what do you mean I wouldn't have believed you?" he spluttered indignantly.

"Because you wouldn't have," said Merlin. He said it softly, as if comforting a younger brother. "Think about it Arthur. You were angry with before the execution. You could hardly believe I was a sorcerer, let alone Morgana.

It wasn't until you'd spoken to me in my cell the day before I escaped that you'd regained any sort of trust in me. And once more, Morgana was your foster sister. She grew up with you! Would anything I could have said truly have convinced you of what she was?"

Arthur blinked. He lowered his gaze to the leaf strewn ground.

"N-…no, I suppose not…But you still should have told me!" Anger subsided from the prince's face. The shadow of a smile took it's place. "I never thought I'd say this, but it's really great to see you, Merlin." Quickly he stepped forward, wrapped his arms around his servant in history's fastest hug, and pulled back, scratching his head awkwardly.

Merlin grinned.

"You too Arthur, you too."

"Oh how lovely!" Derin burst sarcastically. "Uther's spawn and the false messiah have made nice. That's just wonderful. Tell me, boy," he said addressing Merlin. "Are you going to give his father a hug next? Lick his boots while he stamps on the other side of your face? Pathetic! Ughhg!" One of his captors drove a fist hard into his gut. The rat like man slumped forward, kept standing only by the arms that restrained him.

"So, been playing the prophet then, have you?" Arthur asked. "The Pilgrim told about that in a note. He said that the star was you, coming into your role."

"Yeah…" said Merlin, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

"How's that working out?"

"Fools! Why can you not see the truth!" Derin shrieked, only to be painfully walloped. Merlin massaged his temples.

"Alright, I suppose. How have you and Gwen been? Other than almost dying of course."

"Mostly alright. No permanent injuries. We went to Ealdor hoping to find you, or at least a clue as to where you'd gone. All we found were more questions, and not nearly enough answers." At the second mention of his home, suddenly Merlin realized something.

"Is my mother alright? You said Ealdor was attacked. The Pilgrim stopped it?" Arthur nodded.

"She's fine. And yes, the Pilgrim stopped it, without even trying. He immobilized Cenred's men, redirected Morgana's attack, and healed my wound," he rubbed his neck absently.

"So you were wounded then? You might want to practice more than, sire, you're skills may be slipping." Lancelot poked his head through the tent flaps, smirking wryly.

"Lancelot," Arthur said in half surprise. Kilgharrah had mentioned Lancelot, and something about a dragons egg. "What are you doing in there?"

"Hiding, mostly," Lancelot admitted, peering past their shins at the crowd. "Not entirely sure what they'll decide to do, help Merlin, or to deliver this egg straight to this mad sounding sorceress Morgause."

"Feel free to step inside to talk, Emrys," said the Weaver. "We shall gather again later. I assume there is much you and Artorious wish to discuss." Until she had spoken, Arthur had only half noticed the seemingly young girl wrapped in evergreen robes. The way she spoke was nothing like that of a child.

"You're the Weaver then?" he asked skeptically. "Guienevere told me she saw you in her vision, a hundred years ago, with the Pilgrim."

"Ah, so he showed her that memory. Oh how long ago that was. He showed you your mother, of course, who in turn showed you where to find that?" she pointed to Excalibur at his belt. Arthur nodded.

"You found it then," Merlin started, excitedly. "I hope you're grateful, It wasn't easy getting-" he was cut of by the Weaver pushing he and Arthur towards the tent entrance.

"In, in, in. Do you truly wish to hold your entire conversation in such public view?"

Exchanging a look, the pair agreed. They did have a lot to talk about. Questions to ask, to answer. Together they ducked into the tent, and as they did so, they heard the Weaver address the crowd herself.

"Can it truly be said that this man is not the one? Now, that Artorious has arrived? He used the crystal cave in a way that no other can, and in doing so has come to see what is true in the Gods eyes. Decide what you will my children, just know that when the time comes I will stand with Emrys, whether you believe him to Emrys or not."

Derin yelled a few profanities before being silence once more and finally dragged away. The crowd dispersed, gossiping in muffled chatters.

"Now, answer me everything," said Arthur. "Everything that's happened since you came to Camelot. You owe me that at least."

**Okay, firsts things first, you all have probably noticed that there are far fewer chapters now. This is because i condensed the story. This was to make the chapters longer. Now, this chapter is shorter than the others now, but i hope you'll like it anyway. On another document I already have the next one started, and plan to have out tommorow. the plots points are going to start coming together much quicker now, because I've vowed to myself to finish this story before the month is out. While i wanted this chapter to be longer, the other stuff i would put in it jumps forward a few hours in time, and i want to keep things together. We see Gwen next time, Mordred, Cenred and Alvarr's audience with Odin about theior false warning, and a whole bunch of shit hits the fan for our heroes. Happy reading!**


	16. Discussions

**Okay, so I've been looking over my hits lately, barely a hundrerd people read all the way to the latest chapter? Please, is this story becoming boring? Is enough happening fast enough for you. Please, if you want it to continue, review it. I need reviews to get motivated, because otherwise the actual writing part of writing is really hard for me. So, please review. Please? **

"The witchfinder?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, he framed Gaius. So I framed him. Put a frog in his mouth to. Might have been a bit much but it was a laugh."

"The Griffon?"

"I enchanted the tip of Lancelots lance. With a magical head, it cut through the hide like paper."

"Did Olaf's daughter enchant me? Or was I acting like an absolute arse of my own accord?"

"Ha! No, she didn't enchant you herself. Actually, she was enchanted too, I think. Love potions. I think one of the other kings was trying to start a war. The only way to break a love potions hold is to be kissed by the person you really love...so I talked to Gwen and, you know the rest."

"The Dragon attack? You stopped it with your dragon lord abilities? I'm sorry about you're father. At the time I didnt understand."

"Yes, and it's alright. I'm still a bit rusty with those powers though. Controlling a dragon is a bit harder than you would think."

"The assasin that tried to kill me when I was staying with Guienivere?"

"That one two. Don't remember how exactly though. Some of these get sort of jumbled together."

Lancelot watched with quiet curiosity as the Prince and the manservant turned prophetic messianic figure traded questions and answers back and forth. Merlin's stories were fascinating, tales of witchcraft and treachery worthy of a bard's epic song. It seemed to the dragon bound warrior that there had not been a single day during Merlin's life as a servant when Arthur when Arthur hadn't been nearly killed by some sort of magical assassin bent on taking over Camelot.

He had battled dark sorcerers, helped to defeat the griffon, averted a deadly plague, and had his master's life on more occasions than one cared to think about. And to think that was just his first few months of servitude, and nearly two years worth of tales remained to be told. It boggled Lancelot's mind. How could one person handle so much by themselves? Most men would be driven to madness with just a single day of Merlin's line of work.

Quietly he rose from his seat. Cradling the dragoness' egg in its carrying sling, he tip toed from the tent. While Merlin's stories were enjoyable, and he would like to hear about his various adventures, Lancelot could see that the two friends would be in need of some time to themselves to talk. Emotions were running high, tension, anxiety, with just a little hopeful optimism sprinkled in.

"Right," said Arthur, drawing another line in the dirt at his feet, tallying up the number of times Merlin had had to save the day. He leaned back against a pile of fur lined cushions. The tents dim lighting, provided by candles that stood in ornate golden stands, carved dark oblong lines over his cheekbones. They'd yet to touch on any truly tantalizing subjects. Nothing details of the Pilgrim, of the Crystal cave. It was just a matter of time.

"Next question. When exactly did have this made, and why?" He tapped Excalibur's magnificent hilt.

"When the wraith attacked," Merlin answered. "You'd taken its next challenge, and the dragon told me you could only defeat it with a weapon enchanted to kill the dead. So I went to Gwen in the middle of the night and asked her for the finest sword her father had ever made. She was hesitant at first, but gave in when I told her it was to keep you alive. From there I brought the sword to the dragon, and he tempered it with his fire.

He told me the blade was meant to be used by you and you alone. In anyone else's hands it would bring only death and destruction. But then you're father took your place in the duel, and he used it. After just holding it once he called it the finest blade he's ever seen. He could feel its power. He wanted it for himself."

"That's why you threw it in the lake, to hide in until I would need it again," Arthur said in understanding. Merlin nodded.

"And the Pilgrim told you where to find it?"

"Yes, though indirectly. He sent me a vision of my mothers spirit to talk with me. She showed me the way."

Lowering his gaze, Arthur rubbed his chin gingerly considering his next question, along with the topic of their tell all discussion. Part of him wanted to continue the conversation as it had been. Chronicling Merlin's exploits one by one in the order they came to mind. But now that they'd reached the subject of the sword, the matter of Freya came with it.

On this matter he didn't know where to begin. How does one go about discussing with his closest friend the fact that he'd killed the woman he loved, and that he had spoken with her lake bound spirit just hours ago?

"Merlin…at the lake I met…I met Freya." All color drained from the warlock's usually cheery face.

"F-Freya's dead," he stammered.

Void-like chasms of sad memory formed in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Arthur explained.

"Her spirit became bound to the lake where you launched her funeral pyre. She's become a guardian spirit of some sort. She told me how you kept her hidden. That you'd fallen in love with one each other It was her who brought me the this." He ran a careful finger along Excalibur's covered blade. "She…she sends her love, and says that you'll see her again very soon."

Arthur hung his head in guilt ridden shame. "I'm truly sorry, Merlin. I killed her; I killed the woman you love."

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't know," Merlin interjected immediately. The chasm had gone from his eyes. Something warm returned to his face, lightening his expression. "Please don't look like that Arthur. It's alright."

"It's not alright! I killed the woman you love!" These words he nearly screamed. Hands shaking he scrubbed at his sweat coated hair. His eyes had gone red and puffed. He leaned forward on the edge of his seat. Tears threatened to fall.

"All the time you could have had together, the future you may have had is gone because of me, Merlin. How can you forgive that so easily?"

"Because like I told you, it wasn't your fault. You didn't know Arthur, you couldn't have known. All you saw was a winged panther rampaging through the city. You didn't have time to think about the person she may have been or who she knew. And besides," he added with a ghostly smile. "If what you said was true I'll see her again. I think you're right."

An extended silence followed. The two of them sat, eyes locked, analyzing one another, peering into each other's souls. After a moment Arthur slowly began to regain his composure. Redness retreated from his cheeks. The shaking of his hands ceased. Leaning back against the cushions, he asked.

"You saved me from the questing beast didn't you?"

"I did," came the reply.

"How did you pull that one off? My wounds were terrible. It can't have been easy. What did you use, a magic potion, or some kind of healing spell?" Merlin shook his head.

"No. I couldn't find any sort of spell that would work. I've never been good with potions, but Gaius didn't know of any of those either." He paused, flexing his fingers ponderingly. "Gaius told me that when you get down to it magic is about balance. In order to gain something, something must be given in return… The only magic that could save you required a sacrifice. I went to a place called the Isle of the Blessed, the center of the Old religion, and offered my life to Nimueh so that you could live." A deathly white spread across the prince's cheeks.

"You. Did. What?" he burst angrily. How could you do something so stupid?" Merlin sighed.

"I did it because you're my friend Arthur. It's that simple. I would have done anything to save you." Arthur felt the heat fade from his cheeks.

"How are you still alive?" Merlin shrugged a shoulder.

"Things got a little complicated. Nimueh was the high priestess of the isle, and instead of holding to our deal and taking my life, she tried to take my mother's instead. Do you remember when she came to Camelot ill? Well, Gaius went to the isle to give his life to save her. So in short I confronted Nimueh, and I killed her. With her death Gaius was allowed to live." Arthur starred, dumbfounded.

Merlin, killing someone? It was about as believable as a swamp fly wielding a battle axe.

"Y-you killed Nimueh?"

"With lightning from the sky," his friend told him solemnly, sounding regretful. "I'd never been so angry before. Gaius was dead. All the power inside me well up and exploded outward." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. Another lengthy silence fell. 'That's why Nimueh hasn't attacked in so long,' Arthur thought in disbelieving wonder. 'She's been dead'. He looked over his manservant. Appearance wise, with big goofy ears, baby blue eyes, an infuriating large grin, shoulders draped in robes sewn with Druid symbols, nothing hinted at the most extraordinary of qualities. Not his godlike magical talents. Nor his status amongst the Druids.

No, what most thoroughly defined him was his unmatchable , undying sense of loyalty towards those he held dear. While foreknowledge of destiny had started him on the path, he remained on it to protect a friend. A cause far nobler than any of the Camelot's wealthy noblemen could ever hope to claim. Satisfied, the Prince sank back against the cushions. He ran his tongue over dry chapped lips. Another question, this once rather unpleasant, evolved from a dormant thought to a single spoken word.

"Morgana." Merlin cringed visibly. A hand tugged anxiously at a gilded sleeve of his robe.

"How she came to side with Morgause, that's what you want to know, right?"

"Everything that you know," Arthur responded firmly. "I need to hear it all. Anything could help to defeat her in the future, no matter how insignificant it may seem. First things first though, do you know when she first started practicing sorcery?"

"She didn't. Like me she was born with her magic. For years it manifested as nightmares, seers dreams. The rest of her abilities like standard speel work and telekinesis didnt appear until much later in her life."

"Why's that?"

"Not sure really. Gaius thinks it may be because of her fear of Uther. Knowing what he'd do to her if he ever found out, she repressed her magic until it became dormant. For a while at least." Arthur scratched his chin.

"Couldnt you and Gaius, I dont know...trained her or something?Surely between the two of you there was something you could teach her." Again Merlin hung his head low. This was something he felt truly guilty for. Something, that if he'd approached differntly, may have resulted in Morgana not falling under her twisted sisters influence.

"Part of me wanted to. But Gaius covinced me I shouldnt get her involved. It made sense at the time. She was Uther's ward, and any involvement she could have with magic could only put her in danger. It didn't really work out like I'd hoped."

"No, I suppose it didnt," Arthur mumbled in agreement.

"Well," Merlin continued. "From there it's actually sort of straight forward. At least I think it is. While having to hide her magic she did everything she could to finght against your father. When Gwen's father died she even conspired with a group of assassins to kill him, but backed out at the last minute. Uther showed her he does have at least something of a heart."

"Couldn't have been much of one," said Arthur. On the subject of his father he was still divided. On one hand Uther had commited, horrible, irredeemable crimes based on his own misconception of his own actions. Yet on the other hand, he was still his father. Could he really bring himself to kill the man who had raised him for more than twenty years? Should mercy and redempotion be offered in the face the witches impending attack, or should the king be run through by his own son? Snapping back to reality, Arthur said.

"Go on, Merlin. Just lost myself in thought there for a moment. How did Morgause come into the picture? Was Morgana actually kidnapped or did she go of her on freewill?" With a quick tug he unsheathed Excalibur, examing it's flawless blade over his knee.

"Freewill. Or mostly so. The two of them met when Morgause challenged you to that duel. Later, when Morgause set the stone knights on Camelot while it was under her sleeping spell, she made Morgana the source of the enchantment. The only way to stop it was to...kill her. There was no other way. I slipped her some poison from Gaius' workshop. I made Morgause end the enchantment before i would tell her what the posion was... She left then, bringing Morgana with her."

"...You did the right thing Merlin. Poisoning must've been hard for you, but her life, for the rest of the kingdom, was the best trade you could have made." Merlin smiled thinly.

"I'm glad someone think's so at least. I've had nightmares about making that decision. Haven't forgiven myself for it yet, and neither has Morgana."

"What do you know about the Pilgrim?" queried Arthur, chaning the subject. In his mind Merlin should feel no guilt for what he had done. With the crimes she'd comitted on her hands, his bastard sister deserved no more than death. "When Guinivere and I were with him he spoke of nothing but the future, cryptic propheices, and our destinies. He told me you were some kind of prophet. Can you explain that to me?"

"The Pilgrim is...Emrys," Merlin explained carefully. "The Emrys, the prophet, before me. That's why he's dying. When I took over the job, his power was no longer needed within him. I went into a cave of crystal you see, the one from the prophecy. And in it I saw visions of what would be. But mostly I started to...know things. There are certain things I just know to be true beyond all doubt. I know what needs to happen, Arthur. The details are still a bit fuzzy, but they'll fill themselves in eventually. Hopefully. In the end, the Pilgrim will die. And maybe then we'll come to fully understand who and what he is."

"What needs to be done?"

"We have to fight. A battle's coming, one that there's no avoiding. The kingdoms will break and fall apart. Armies will be formed and shattered. Some will ride by your side, others against you. Morgana and I are going to do battle. One of us is gooing to have to kill the other, yet both of us will be dead...don;t ask what that mean's. That part I havent been shown much about. But for now, I don't know what to do."

"Couldnt you just go back to the cave, look for another vision?" the warlock shook his head.

"I'll return to the cave sometime, when the time is right. But for visions, I just need the reflection of flames."

Then, as if one cue, or by the will fo whatever God was watching, the candlelight caught Excalibur's blade as Arthur moved to put it away. Electric sensations rocketed through his nerves. Images flashed like a thousands memories flooding back at a single moment. Screams filled his ears. Chains, the warmth of fire. Lancelot knelt before an egg cracked open, a scaly shadow moving about him. Hooves thundering across the countryside. Morgana's smirk, a crown atop her head. Gwen shrieking in agony. Pain ripped through his skull. Power threatened to tear away from him unwanted. White hot knives tore at his flesh. The knowing came. Prophetic knowledge of what must be became his.

Merlin's eyes flew open. He lay sprawled on the floor, limbs jutting out in random directions. Arthur stood over him looking worried.

"Are you alright? Was that a-"

"Vision? Yes. Pefect timing too. We have to return to Camelot. Now. That's what we're meant to do. I know it. Gwen's in trouble."

**Meant this to be longer, but I have rehearsal for the school musical tonight, and all this week. Again, tell me if not enough is happening fast enough. I initially meant for this to be twice as long, to have Gwen, Morgana, and Cenred in it, but i just needed to update. Mostly just exposition, but I hoped you liked it. Next chapter, I swear, things speed up. Hell is unleashed, Morgana laughs evilly, Cenred has a bad day, etc. Happy Reading! **


	17. Demons

Well, hell week just ended, so my musical is finally over. Now I actually have time to write. Yes, this shoulder have been longer, that's the entire reason why I condensed a bunch of chapters, but I think this ones length will do for now. See ya later, happy reading.

Flint sharp eyes fixed on the floor, Uther Pendragon paced circles around his private study, arms folded tightly behind his back. The room was spacious and warm, lit well by a half dozen candles that stood in golden stands draped with scarlet coverings. Cool summer air poured in through the large open window, filling the study with the sweet smells of blooming flowers and fresh honeysuckle. The sky outside was a canvas of blackened blue, sprinkled with stars that shone like a million salty diamonds. Sturdily shaped shelves of beech wood lined the walls filled to bursting with heavy books that were hardly ever touched.

Having been trained since birth to be a fighting man, Uther had never seen the need to study the written word. Myths and legends of course had their place in the running of a kingdom, but that place was not at the forefront of a king's mind. That was what scholars and scribes were for, to contextualize the knowledge of the past so that the ruler could it use it at a moment's notice.

Gaius sat at the gilded desk set against the room's far wall. He was the scholar in this case. Around him was piled nearly his entire library of all things magical and mythical. Stacks of books surrounded him like a fortress of dusty papyrus and dried ink. The elderly physician adjusted his spectacles on his sweat coated nose. It was he whom was the scholar in this situation. Very rarely was anyone, especially a non-royal, ever called to the king's chambers, even a servant who was a long-time friend. But what Uther required was knowledge none of the castle librarians possessed, concerning a topic that he would only ever openly discuss with a very select few.

Magic.

Looking up his research Gaius watched his friend's movements. His limbs were tense and taut. The edges of his mouth quivered as he walked. Uncertainty showed in his eyes. He was worried about something. This could be seen as rather bothersome. Only in the direst of situations did Camelot's king fear anything. But indeed, the king was afraid. All of the search parties had reported back having found nothing. Except for one, Arthur's. Apprehension prickled at the back of Uther's neck.

Yet it was not for the safety of Arthur and Morgana, of his children that tore at him now. Arthur was the finest warrior Camelot had seen in many years, and at least six knights, including Sir Leon, were with him. Together they would surely be able to cleave their way through any advesaries who opposed them on their return journey to Camelot.

It had not surprised him to learn that Morgana and her maid had followed Arthur on his expedition. It was just like her to go off in search of adventure to help a friend even when the friend was a wanted fugitive and she had been explicitly told not to go. A small smile played at the kings lips. She had inherited her stubborness from him.

Emrys.

The name had echoed through his thoughts since the day of the siege. Merlin, the servant boy had claimed that name. And that name alone had struck fear into Morgause's heart, sending her fleeing for the hills. Who was this 'Emrys' that prophecy supposedly told of, and why did a sorceress powerful as Morgause fear him? A sorcerer so powerful could be a threat unlike any Camelot had ever seen before. None of the castle libraries vast archives mentioned anything of such a man. So, in his desperate need to know his enemy, the king had turned to his physician for help. Perhaps books concerning magic would have something valuable hidden between their bindings.

Peering back down at the desk Gaius turned a brittle page with the utmost care. The tome was very old; its pages were pale brown, flaking at the edges. Black ink, barely readable due to the inevitable decay of time, read in the old tongue.

"Tenebras lumen suum Emrys Myrridn odium amor Fay amor irridun alis sunedik," Gaius muttered these words aloud in fascination. Over the years he had learned much of Albion's archaic language, though he was far from being a fluent speaker as Nimueh had been. Uther spun round on his heel to face him.

"What does that mean, Gaius? Is it anything of importance?"

"Perhaps, sire. It is written in the Old tongue but I believe I can translate. It means 'The darkness to Emrys' light, the hatred to his love. The black dragoness will be his doom, and Emrys shall be hers, for they are bound together in an endless dance of fate. Sword for sword, kin for kin, soul for soul.'" A pause.

"…Where did you find this, Gaius?"

"A book of magical history, sire. It goes back nearly a hundred years, to the time of your grandfather, King Vortigern." Pondering, Uther scratched his chin in thought, before sinking into the straight backed chair by the desolate fireplace. On the small table at his right hand sat jeweled goblet and a jug of mulled wine. He filled the goblet, drinking deeply.

"And what does that mean? What does this Emrys have to do with my grandfather?" His tone was steely, skeptical. Gaius answered unperturbed.

"Admittedly sire, I know rather little about that particular time period. But I believe that the name Emrys was mentioned in several Druid prophecies dating back to around that may simply be an excerpt." Uther nodded. Yes, that fit. The Merlin boy himself had mentioned that it was the Druids who called him by another name. It only made further sense for them to have some absurd poem foretelling his coming.

"What do you know of this prophecy?" Gaius turned away from the king. Idly he fiddled with his quill, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"Very little. Only that Emrys is said to be the most powerful sorcerer who ever was, or will ever be. Some of the druids believe him to be their messiah, one who will deliver from the darkest of times. A prophet." Uther's gray eyes narrowed dangerously. His mouth tightened.

"And you, Gaius, what do you believe? Do you believe your former ward to be this 'Emrys'?" Anger was clear in the question. Gaius groaned mentally.

Since the day of Merlin's escape, the relationship between the king and the physician had been icy at best. Of course it had been assumed that Gaius had known all about his young charge's hidden talents, and yet he had not turned him in.

'Forgive me, sire. But if placed in my shoes, how willing would be to hand over your own son to the executioner? Sorcerer or no, Merlin is the closest thing to a son I will ever have, and had the need arisen, I would have defied the Gods themselves to save him,' he had said with venom starkly contrasted to his usually mild temperament.

"What I believe hardly matters, sire. Whether or not Merlin is who the Druids believe him to be is beyond my knowing."

"I see…Then what can you make of this prophetic line you found? Can you interpret it?"

"Perhaps. In the old tongue Emrys literally means 'child of the light'. So, perhaps the 'black dragoness' is his opposite. The one who the Druids foretell to be the one to take his life, and he hers in the process."

"Who is this 'dragoness'? All but a single dragon have been eradicated from Albion, and he is hardly female. Nimueh, perhaps? She was once a member of the court. The title could refer to her previous status." Gaius arched a silver eyebrow.

"Pardon my asking sire, but even if Nimueh is who the prophecy refers to, why do you concern yourself with such things?"

"Because my friend," Uther said firmly. "Though I see magic for the evil that it is I am wise enough to seek out not only my enemies weaknesses, but their strengths as well. Magical preminition is dangerous. Foreknowledge of the future has been the downfall of many great men. Usually I would never even read such a prophecy, now however the stakes are high. If this dragoness woman, assuming she is a woman, can defeat Emrys, then I may alighn myself with her, if only for a short time. Most likesly she is just another sorceress, and therefore must eventually be destroyed as well."

Gaius stared. Was he serious?

"Sire are you saying that you intend to find this woman and use her, before killing her? Surely, you must be joking."

"I am not. Magic must be stopped at all costs, Gaius. If Emrys truly is as powerful a warlock as the Druids believe him to be, as well as a Dragonlord, then he could reduce Camelot to a glorified pile of debris. He will kill us all with his sick and twisted plot for power." The physician leapt to his feat. He turned to face Uther eye to eye, anger boiling his blood.

"Merlin would never do such a thing! In all his time here he has only ever used his powers for good! And had he not stepped in to fight Morgause you and both your children would be dead, while the kingdom would be enslaved!"

Reeling from the sudden outburst, Gaius took a moment to recompose himself. He straightened the front of his wrinkled clothing, cheeks stained with remants of the red that his anger had brought, tinged with embaressed pink blush.

"My apologies." Uther waved him off.

"Your anger is understandable. No matter the circumstances it is never easy to lose a child, whether he be of blood relation or not. Know this however, old friend. Whatever good the boy may have done was all for naught. Magic corrupts all it touches. Merlin may have goodness still in his heart for now, but soon it will be purged away by black, poisonous maliciousness. I am thankful you saw the light before your magical practices consumed you. If only the boy had made the same choice to stop. Then perhaps he could have been saved." This he'd spoken with calm neutrality. As if explaining the simplest of concepts to a child who hadn't listened to his tutors.

Annoyance pulsed in Gaius' temples. Soon though it ebbed away, replaced by a despairing sadness that seeped, trickled into his heart. Eyes falling to the ground, he muttered, barely audible.

"He did not choose magic. Magic chose him. There are those who are not taught, but are born with magic in their blood. Nimueh was such a case. As is Merlin."

"Then they were both born tainted. Please, let's not have this argument now, Gaius. It never goes anywhere, and both of us know for a fact that I am right. Magic has proven it's treachery time and time again. On how many occasions have sorcerers made an attempt on my own or my son's lives?"

Gaius sank back into his seat. He peered back down at the book covered desk, flipping a few pages absently.

"A sword has only the intentions of it's wielder. The blade draws blood, but it is the swordsman who deals the blow. Magic is the same in many ways. Only if the sorcerer wills it does it wreak pestilence and death. I hope one day you'll listen to me sire. One day soon."

With a final swig Uther finished his wine. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Perhaps one day we'll grow tired of this argument."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Gaius conceeded.

Just then the sound of footfalls sounded outside in the corridor. A light hand rapped at the door.

"Enter," Uther called, setting down his goblet.

The door swung open to reveal a young page dressed in a leather practice jerkin. This was Percival Gryfindor, younger brother of Sir Godric, and second child of the noble Gryfindor family. His mane of dark red hair was swept back over his shoulders. Sweat soaked his face, breath coming in ragged gulps.

"My lord-" he gasped, leaning forward with hands on knees trying to catch his breathe.

"Spit it out boy," Uther barked impatiently.

"It's- It's the Lady Morgana, my lord. She's returned. The guards on patrol just outside the wall found her. Her clothes are all torn and bloody. We don't know what happened." He looked to Gaius. "She's been moved to your chambers, Gaius. Lost consciousness almost immediately."

Without preamble Uther darted from the room, knocking Percival aside as he did so. The king thundered down the halls. Unclipping the fastenings at his neck he let the cape that draped him fall behind him like a fallen banner. Servants scrambled out of the way, dropping their fresh armloads of laundry.

Morgana was hurt. That was all Uther could think. Blood rang in his ears. His heart pounded like a hammer on steel. How was it that she'd returned alone, without Arthur. Only an army could defeat the prince and his entourage. Could Arthur be-

"No!" he croaked aloud. That could never happen. He could not let himself think such things. Arthur was safe. Arthur was fine.

The flimsly door to the physicians workshop was ripped from it's hinges as Uther slammed his way through.

Freshly lit torches spluttered on the walls, casting dancing shadows over the collection of glass vials and beakers that cluttered the workbench and a dozen shelves on the walls. On the table lay unfurled scrolls containing messages from various medical patients. Instruments used to brew various poltuices and potions, mortars, pestles, a beaker used for measuring liquids were neatly squared away in the back of the room where they would be readyn for use on short notice. A clay bowl of half eaten supper was placed before one of the rooms two stools.

And there on the rooms only cot, was Morgana. Uther felt his breathe catch. His strong hands began to tremble violently.

Once a robins egg blue, her beautiful dress had been torn to ribbons that cascaded around her limp form, stained red beyond washing. Bloodied gashes were slash down her arms. A gurgled line of blood trickled from her hair hair, falling onto the tinted lids of her eyes. Morgana appeared as a fallen angel, cast from the heavens to bleed her last on the earths cruel surface.

"My god," Uther choked. He swept to her bedside, falling to his knees in agony. Carefully, as not to disturb her possibly eternal sleep, he cupped his daughters cheek. The pale skin was cold, burning only with the tiniest signs of life.

"My god, no. Please...no..." Tears well in the sunken sockets. A sob escaped. "Please, please no." Leaning forward, Uther nuzzled her usually flawless curtain of jet black hair. His hair had once been the same color.

A small movement seized his attention. Morgana's petite right hand, covered in his scars, twitched.

"My...my lord...Uther, Uncle...?" came the whisper. Uncle. She hadn;t called him that in over a decade. Since before the death of Gorlois. Tumultuous waves of relief washed over him. Sobbing he pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

Unnoticed by either of the royals, Gaius slipped into the room. Silently he went to preparing a treatment. Salves to ease the wounds. Bandages to cover them. A sleeping draft to ease the pain.

"Thank God my dear. I thought...I thought I'd lost you." Morgana smiled painfully up at her guardian, head cradled in his lap. The smile faded, soon replaced by an expression of the utmost grief and terror. Words came slowly, forcefully.

"We...we were attacked outside of Ealdor-Cenred's men were waiting for us. They-they had sorcerers with them. Morgause... Gwen... I barely escaped," she burst into tears. Still shrieking, she continued. "Gwen and Arthur are dead!" Her head buried itself in her fathers chest, pouring away the misery.

For Uther the whole world had ended. Sound and sight came as blurs to his senses. The bottom had dropped out of his stomache. Arthur...dead. Judgment clouded beyond repair, his consciousness turned to the oldest of vices. Vengance.

Hours later, after Morgana had fallen into a fitful sleep, Uther summoned his generals and donned the armor of the king, readying himself for battle. Nothing Gaius or anyone else said could change mind. Cenred would be brought to justice in a storm of blood and steel. The thing Camelot's king valued above all else was gone. There was nothing more to be lost.

Laying in bed, Morgana grinned into her wool coverlet.

All that remained of the Pendragon line was her. Morgana was now the heir to the throne.

When sleep found her, visions did as well for the first time in many months. Images. Gwen digging behind her home beneath the stars. Cenred and Alvarr before king Olaf. Merlin and Arthur galloping over the hills with two other men, the wind at their backs. The Pilgrim slumbering peacefully on a Dragons back.

LINEBREAK

Shoulder to shoulder Cenred and Alvarr allowed themselves to be led across a courtyard of snow white marble. From the marble tiles sprouted a miniature forest of similarly colored collumns, which supported an open roof that covered the courtyard. Lush flower beds formed a square border round the entire yard, broken only by several archways leading to other parts of the royal pavillion.

Stablehands led their horses away to be fed, watered, and sheltered for the night. A courier had been sent ahead to fetch the king. It was probably best that they be recieved outside the castle. Rumor had it that the kings daughter had been slipped a love potion containing one of Prince Arthur's hairs. Alvarr knew she was something to avoid. Love potions had the nastly habbit of driving all those affected by them to the brink of insanity.

Alvarr lit a torch with a whispered 'Agnis'. Waiting a moment for the convoy of his servant, as well as Olaf's welcomign party to disperse, Cenred turned to his companion, scratching at his shoulder which burned with irritation.

"Where did the boy get off to? Surely he wishes to see his aunts message delivered."

"Mordred has positioned himself where he needs to be," Alvarr replied quietly. Cautiously he looked around, checking each entrance into the courtyard.

"Positioned himself? What tell me, is he doing exactly?"

"The enchantment is not entirely complete. Morgause set the task of finishing it to him. He wanted to be closer, but I insisted that he perform the spell from a safe distance."

"Safe distance?" Cenred asked, again scratching it his shoulder. Before Alvarr could provide an answer, Olaf himself, flanked by more than thirty of his men at arms, marched heavily out of one of the stone arches.

Dressed in his finest fur bed gown, clearly he not been expecting company at this time of night.

"Cenred," he snarled. "What brings you here now of all times?" The soldiers that surrounded him parted, forming two strong rows around the three men. Cenred chuckled.

These two of Albion's five kings had never gotten on well. Their treaties had always contradicted each other's, and all they truly shared in common was their mutual loathing of Uther Pendragon.

"I come bearing a message of the utmost urgency Olaf, my friend." His tone was incredibly believable, etched with just the right of fear and dark uncertainty. The dark haired king was known for being a more than exceptional actor when he needed to be. "My lands lay in ruins, torn to pieces by a beast beyond imagining. You of course know of our friend Uther's squabbles with Albion's sorcerers. It seems he has taken his conquest a step too far. Morgause, a dark witch, has declared that none shall be spared from the demons wrath, so long as Camelot still stands. I come to you in desperation, Olaf. Your armies must be ready to march at once, or we shall all face our end very soon."

"Do it now Mordred," Alvarr commanded telepathically. Half a mile away, nestled safetly among barrels of mead, Mordred heard him.

"Draconis Arunim" he said allowed. The black festering wound on Cenred's shoulder burst, and the Agmar demon took over.

Horns like a bulls erupted from Cenred's forehead. Eyes glowing red, he stumbled forward madly. Black licked its way across his skin from the wound, encasing him in abysmal nothingness. Cenred was dead within moments. The demon took his place.

Turning on his heel, Alvarr ran as Olaf's men bellowed in horror as they were ripped apart.d


	18. Rescue Part I

The demon of Agmar tore across the Albion land mass in a frenzy of blood and charred bones. Mangles corpses, strewn about as meaty chunks of flesh, littered the streets of four of the five great kingdoms. Entire villages were reduced to smouldering heaps of timber and thatch mingled with rotting human remains.

Kings Odin and Alined, as well as Cenred's regent, whose identity the peasents of Cenred's kingdom knew not though they believed him to be a high ranking general, scrambled to deploy soldiers to defend their peoples. But to no avail. For whenever a warrior struck at it, their weapon would break against the demons steely hide. Christian priests and scholarly wise men alike were summoned to give the royalty council. But magical beasts were not their forte, and for an entire day the kings despaired,not knowing what to do.

Until that is, King Olaf's couriers arrived, bearing urgents messages for each king. They read.

**Uther Pendragon must be destroyed. In his crusade against magic Camelot's king has provoked the wrath of a powerful witch, who has beset this beast upon us. Her demands are clear and simple. Destroy Uther Pendragon or watch as out own countries burn. I implore you my friends, march your armies on Camelot together with me. United as one, Uther will fall, and we shall be free. Please my friends, I beg you.  
-King Olaf VII **

So, with that desperate request for allegiance, four great armies turned towards Camelot. No diplomatic squabbles, no trivial trade disputes, nor the dramas of arranged marriages had gotten in the way of the kings taking action, as they usually did when they were forced to compromise. No.

Only war, and all of its curses, bore down on the legions of armed men. Only war drove them forward.

Arthur could see this clearly from his position in the upper branches of an ancient Elm tree at the edge of a small settlement just a mile off from the capital, squatting on the balls of his feet, eyes focused like a hawks. The light of the setting sun fell across his shoulder in a curtain of pink tinged orange. Larks returning to their nests for the evening clucked somewhere below him, their songs lost in the rhythmic pounding sound of marching soldiers in the distance.

Camelot castle, his home for all his life, was silhouetted against the setting sun. A scarlet pennant flapped above it in the breeze.

The Pendragon crest, but black and menacing, more serpentine than dragonlike.

Morgana had taken power it seemed.

Whispered rumors among the village folk confirmed it. Prince Arthur was dead, they said, killed by Cenred's men. Seeking vengeance, the king had departed to make war on his enemies, leaving his foster daughter behind as regent Queen. Rumors also told of the newly crowned regents maidservant, who'd apparently returned sometime in the night as a reanimated corpse, no doubt sent by sorcerers with dark intentions... Gwen was alive, this told Arthur. She had simply been discovered by Morgana, and was now being held prisoner. They would rescue her. That was why they were there.

For the better part of a day Arthur had found himself in similar positions in the treetops, watching the plains as they filled with bright banners, warhorses, garrisons of spear-men and roughly manufactured siege weaponry. Just hours ago the Prince had watched keenly as his father galloped out of the city, fully armored and followed by the might that was Camelots army.

They were marching to Badon Hill. They could be headed nowhere else. Though Albions terrain was more than managable for the most part there were no passeges between the kingdoms through which an entire army could pass quickly.

Except for Badon hill.

For a single horseman the hill was half a days ride from almost any part of Albion. For an army, it would take nearly three times as long.

A stand of trees to Arthur's right brustled with movement.

"Emrys wishes to see you, Artorius," Verown called hoarsely from below before slipping back into the thick bramble of the nearby forest.

"Thank God," Arthur muttered. He stretched his limbs, which were stiff from remaining stationary so long. Swinging himself down he dropped to the ground. Along with Lancelot and Verown, the pair had made a small camp at a central point in the forests depths. From a strategic point of view this was a well played move. By ascending to the treetops they had a perfect vantage point, and could see from Camelots open pastures, to the overgrown swamps of Odin's kingdom.

To Arthur however, it was infuriating. Internally, he was torn between dashing off to rescue Gwen, and dashing off to throttle his father within an inch of his life. But Merlin would allow neither. Why exactly he was taking orders from his servant, he couldn't say.

Since seeing his vision reflected in Excalibur's blade, and declaring that they must go to Camelot to help Guienevere, Merlin had done nothing but wait in the forest planning, apparently for the right time to present itself. This irritated him most of all. The 'knowing', as Merlin had explained it to be, was a sensation that came directly from the crystal cave. It was a sense beyond that of foreknowledge, a sense that allowed him to know what was true intuitively, without having physically seen anything to prove it so. The knowing only came when it was supposed to, the prophet explained.

'Can't you force it along a bit?' Arthur had asked.

'Wish I could,' Merlin had chuckled. 'But it doesn't work that way. All I know is that we need to be heading towards Camelot castle. And we can't really get there now what with all the soldiers pouring out of the gates. 'Til the knowings come, I know no more than you for certain. We just have to be patient.'

Tonight, however,as he'd said earlier that morning, was the time to put their plans into action.

"Finally," Arthur muttered.

Verown dropped down beside him and together they walked the hundred or so paces to camp. The elder man was drenched in a thin layer of sweat that trickled down his brow, staining the leather straps that secured the oversized claymore to his chest. Over his right shoulder was draped an evergreen robe much too small for him. It was the Weaver's, a parting gift to her lieutenant given at their parting.

The druids young yet aged leader, leaving them with her blessing, gave her word that she and the druids who hadn't run off to join Morgause's cause, would be there on the battle field to aid them. Verown, had departed from his people to follow the man he'd searched for all his life. Perhaps, with him, he could discover what his own threaded destiny held in store for him.

They found Merlin seated before the small campfire. Lancelot was stooped before the flames, carefully retrieving the dragon egg from the hot tongues. Sir Leon, Sir Godric, and their knight fellows, who they had joined up with when they passed through Ealdor on their journey back towards Camelot, lay sprawled round the fire in uneven intervals, trying vainly to pass the time. Godric toyed idly with a lock of his fiery red hair. Leon split twigs to splinters tween his fingers.

The young warlock himself waved his hands in a variety of contortions. Stones that bordered the firepit were lifted from the ground, twirling lazily in middair. Merlin mumbled an inaudible incatation, causing the largest of the stones to sprout a pair of white feathery wings. Collective gasps filled the camp. Concentrating hard, Merlin willed the wings to flap, forcing the stone to glide in a straight over the fire. The heat wafted into Merlin's eyes, irritating them closed. With a clatter the stones fell to the the ground, wings disapearing in a poof of feathery powder. Merlin cursed lightly. All eyes turned to him.

"That trick is much harder than you'd think," he told them with a shrug. "Making something fly that wasn't meant to fly takes a lot of practice. Pity. We could use some pegasi. Much more convenient than regular horses. Ah," he added noticing Arthur's return. "It's time to get moving then. Night will fall soon. We may as well finalize what we're going to do."

"Right," Arthur agreed, lowering himself onto the ground, hands on his knees. He turned to Sir Leon. "Are you sure you want to run the distraction? I'm sure we could sort something out with Merlin's magic. Can't you conjure up an illusion of some sort?" the question was directed at Merlin, who shook his head ruefully.

"Not if I'm to be any help with the rest of the plan. I can't cast a spell somewhere where I'm not, I have to be able to see what I'm doing."

"The knights and I are more than willing," Leon said firmly. The other knights bobbed nods of agreement. "But just to be safe, Sire, let's run through the entire plan one more time. It will be easier to carry out our own part if we know for sure what you'll be doing."

"Of course," said Arthur, glancing up at the setting sun. There was still time.

"After nightfall Merlin, Lancelot, Verown and I sneak round to the back of the castle, from where we'll dig our way into the dungeons. When we've found Guienevere, we'll send her down the small track that leads behind Gaius' workshop. Then she'll steal from the city, hopefully, without being seen."

"While Godric, the knights and I will present ourselves in the throne room to the Lady Morgana," Leon continued.

"Yes," said Merlin. "When you refuse to swear you're allegiance she'll have you thrown in prison. We'll cover our escape tunnel with straw when we send Gwen out just in case. You should be able to just crawl out." Of course, went the unsaid fact. Things were never that simple with plans such as these.

"Wait," Sir Godric said after a moment of silence. "You said you'll 'send' Guienevere out. Won't you be coming with her?"

"Not at first," said Merlin.

"First," continued Arthur,"We're going to confront Morgana. Depending on the timing, Sir Leon, you may not need our escape tunnel. If we make it to the throne room before you're detained feel free to join in the fighting. Every sword will be helpful." The knights gaped at him bewilderedly. Eyes turned the size of saucepans. Mouthes fell open.

"Yes, it sounds insane," said Merlin. He exchanged glances with Arthur. "But insane notions are all we have to go on right now. Something...not sure what, is meant to happen in the castle tonight. Whatever it is, I _know_ that the four of us have to be there, and that we're supposed to meet Morgana." Nervously he rubbed at his temples. The vision had been unclear. Nothing speficic had been seen. Only images sprinkled with bits of knowing. "Then of course there's this demon we keep hearing about. Admittedly, I'm not what you'd call an expert on the infernal. Three foot horns, unpiercable skin. Uh huh. Very difficult. Don't suppose you know anything, Verown?" The large man shook his head.

"Unfortunately, I do not Emrys. My people have never found it necessary to teach our young of such things."

"We'll worry about that later," Arthur interjected. "Perhaps on her way out Guienevere could fetch one of Gaius' books. Would he have a book like that?"

"Maybe," answered Merlin. "He has a few old spellbooks and a bestiary. If we're not busy fighting for our lives I'll ask him myself."

"Get ready then." said Arthur. He got to his feet. "Prepare your weapons. We begin as soon as the sun sets."

"Just like usual, isn't it?" Merlin asked his friend. Gaze fixed on the campfire flame's, their dancing ribbons teasing his eyes with the prospect of a new vision, he continued. "Something mad happens in Camelot, and we have to stop it. Except this time were working together...I like it that way." The Prince couldn't help but smile.

"As do I my friend. As do I."

**LINEBREAK**

Gwen didn't know how long she'd spent trapped in the darkness of the dungeon. Heavy shackles tore at her wrists and ankles, secured to the wall by wrought iron chains. A great welt throbbed at the based of her skull. Pain echoed ghostily through her entire body, blurring her vision and perception of time. Gwen's memories were muddled, mixed with dreams so that she could only recall the past hazily, without complete certainty of it's authenticity.

One moment she remembered being ambushed and blugeoned to the head while digging for the crown behind her home, the next, she remembered walking with her father through a land of enchanted dreams.

A layer of damp straw matted the dungeons floors. Clotted with dirt and filth, it was clear it hadn't been changed in ages. Between the spindly blades of straw rats burrowed their homes. Twitching pink noses poked out occasionaly, searching anxiously for the tiniest scrap of food.

Two guards stood silently at the heavy oaken door. They spoke in whispers to each other. Gossiping quietly about Prince Arthur's death, and the Lady Morgana's new position. One of them held a dying torch.

A pained moan gurgled in Gwen's throat. Shadows of concern filled her, she strained at her bonds and turned to look at the cell's only other occupant.

Against the opposite wall was chained Gaius. A sliver of torchlight fell through the doors barred window, revealing his frail features. The physician's snow white hair, coated at it was in sweat and grime, framed the elderly face. Darkened locks emphasized the clammy wrinkled skin. His eyes were closed. Breath came raggedly. .

He'd been brought in sometime during the previous night. Gwen couldn't be sure when.

Morgana had branded him a traitor to the crown. Now he lay broken, bleeding. Hovering precariously between life and death.

"Stand aside," chimed a familiar silky voice. Syllables rang in the maidservants ears, bringing her as close to alert as it was possible for her to be. "I've come to question them."

"Perhaps we should come with you, Milady," one of the guards grunted, moving to lift the ring of keys from his belt. "A former sorcerer, an' an undead. Dangerous folks, Milady." She replied curtly.

"They're both unconscious. No harm will come to me I assure you. Now please, stand aside." Obediently they moved towards the spiral stairs up to the castle. Gwen could hear the metal clang of each of their steps. Moments later it faded away, leaving the dungeons in silence. The door creaked open.

Gwen squinted at the sudden blooming light. Feebly she raised a hand to shield her eyes. A curved womanly shape stood in the shadows of the doorframe. Morgana swept forward into the room. With brisk fingers she withdrew from her belt a vial of bright blue liquid. She unstoppered it, stooped low before her former maid, and forcibly tipped three sweet drops down her parched throat.

Energy poured into Gwen's veins like golden ichor. Feeling returned to her limbs. Her vision came back into focus. Morgana stood over her smirking coyly. A golden circulet sat atop her head. A rubied signet ring adorned her finger.

"'Tis wonderful to see your alright, Gwen. Would you be a dear and tell me what this is?" The gleaming crown, so carefully engraved with the prophetic words MITHRAE INVICTO laid across her open palm. "Feel free not to answer. Just know that any reluctance on your part may result in Gaius' tragic demise." Gold flecked her irises. Red embers kindled tween her pale fingers.


	19. Rescue Part II

**Sorry guys, I actually started this a couple days ago, but I had prom and then I got sick the day after. So, now I'm finally ****getting**** back to work. I'm going to try and finish this story up rather soon, mostly because I don't get nearly enough work out with the amount of time I've had. At least I feel that way. Okay, I'm thinking of starting a new story soon. Don't worry, this one will still continue. I have a couple ideas that I'll just list here. Tell me which ones you like, and I'll get right on them. Merlin/Zelda crossover. Harry Potter/Merlin crossover. And an avatar the last ****airbender****/****merlin**** crossover (I can make it work) Happy reading. Please review, your feedback is what keeps me going, and motivates me to write more. So, here we go. **

Gwen hesitated. Her heart pumped dangerously in her chest. Clammy sweat seeped over her olive colored skin. A response froze halfway out. Would telling the truth of the crowns origins come back to haunt her? Apart from its masterful craftsmanship, there seemed to be nothing special about it. But the Pilgrim had requisitioned it for Arthur…meaning that despite what it seemed to be now a greater purpose certainly awaited it. The fire in Morgana's palm surged brightly. Sparks burst from a fingertip, drifting lazily downward, kindling the fluffy straw tinder that layer the ground. Small flames began to gnaw hungrily at the straw. Spiraling smoke wreathed its way around the room, shrouding everything in a grayish veil.

Gaius, still sleeping, coughed dangerously. His wrinkled hands clawed desperately at the air. Morgana positively giggled.

"By all means don't answer me, Gwen. Gaius will die, but that certainly won't bother you, will it?" she giggled again. Her voice was almost child-like in its expression. Like a young girl teasing a close friend, then breaking down into a rapturous fit of laughter at her own brilliance. "Refusing to answer won't get you anywhere though. I know what the inscription says, it's written in a form of Latin mixed with the old tongue. 'Arthur the bear, for now and always'. Very good workmanship," she ran a supple finger over the crowns edges, stopping at once of the starred points.

"Did your father make it? Yes, it looks to be the quality of his work. Though why would a simple peasant blacksmith forge a crown, and one of pure gold at that? He must have been hired by someone very wealthy and very rebellious to make a crown for someone other than one of Camelot's kings... Telling me who would be wise, Gwen. Though it would bring me no great pleasure to do so, I would be perfectly willing to melt the flesh from your bones to persuade you. So, if not for Gaius' sake, then for your own, answer the question."

A movement of her hand made the flames wire in a curtain of swaying orange and red that surrounded the prisoners in a hot ring. The fibers of straw had been reduced to nothing more than blacking piles of soot.

Gwen found herself staring through the smoky veil despite the growing heat, eyes wide in disbelief.

Above her stood not Morgana, not the employer and friend she had known since she was a small girl, but a demoness, with black pits instead of eyes and obsidian talons in place of fingers. Who was this woman that she had become, consumed by a hatred so deep that she would watch all she had ever loved burn to prove a point, to secure a place of power for herself? Would a pair of harpy's wings erupt from her shoulder blades and fire from her lips? Was the old Morgana trapped somewhere deep within that twisted shell, or was she truly such a monster?

"My father made it...yes." The flames receded somewhat. Morgana took a single step forward, throwing her beautiful face into full view. She titled her head to the side, considering, appearing no less intimidating.

"And why was it buried?" came the next question.

"The...the Pilgrim requested it be buried after it was finished." The regent's brows crawled upward, past her hairline.

"So it was the old man who had it made," she whispered to herself, turning on a heel to look away. A pondering hand rose to finger her chin. "What for?"

Gwen's gaze fell to the floor. Flames danced across the chocolate brown irises.

"Arthur...he had it made for when Arthur is to be king." Makes sense, thought Morgana. All the old bat ever seemed to talk about was Arthur's destiny, and how all he had ever worked for was to see him to the throne. These thoughts continued, returning to the similar cycle they'd ran for the last two days, consuming her being with ravenous curiosity. Who was the Pilgrim? Why was it that he had dedicated himself so fervently to Arthur, speaking the words of cryptic songs not as vagaries of the imagination but as concrete truths?

"Did he now? Does one of his oh so precious prophecies speak of it?" her tone suddenly grew darker, harsher. Each syllable became sharper, with an edge of venom to their sounds.

"I don't know," said Gwen.

"Did prophecy also speak of sending you, a powerless wretch defenseless into the city to retrieve it? Seemingly the Pilgrim's mission to help Arthur includes sending you to your doom. Where did he send Arthur off to, the Isle of the Blessed itself?" True anger flared in her face.

"I don't know," Gwen repeated quietly.

"What do you know? Where Merlin is, perhaps?"

"No...I don't know." Morgana sneered disgustedly.

"Well," her tone and features suddenly becoming those of diplomacy. "Then I suppose I'm done with you, for the time being at least." She turned to Gaius and snapped her fingers. Gold flashed, and the physicians bonds went taught. Another snap of the fingers. Red heat glowed off the steel of the shackles.

For a moment all was silent, and then a light hissing purred into life. In the darkness of the room it was barely visible, nearly blending into the background. A column of smoke, gray and miniscule, rose steadily from Gaius' wrists and ankles. The skin beneath the shackles was being burnt, seared away by the heat.

Suddenly Gaius' eyes flew open. He shrieked like a banshee, nerves all but melting, marrow turned to liquid magma. His cries reverberated around the stone chamber, magnifying their volume ten-fold.

"Stop it!" Gwen screamed, tugging vainly at the chains binding her. It was no use. "Why are you doing this?" her voice was feeble, mostly drowned out by Gaius' pain. Still, Morgana heard the question.

"To wake him up of course," she answered lazily. She didn't turn to say it, gaze intent on the elderly man writhing on the floor. Her eyes were wild, euphoric.

"You're torturing him!"

"Am I?" Morgana queried as if she hadn't noticed, giving a small jump in surprise at the sight of it. "Oh, I suppose I am. Thank you, Gwen. One mustn't inflict too much pain so quickly, or there'll be no secrets to be gained from it at all."

The shackles orange glow faded. With a bump Gaius slumped to the ground. His head lolled onto his shoulder. Lifeless looking.

"He doesn't know anything-leave him alone, please!"

"Why should I, Gwen? What else am I to do with a pair of traitors but torture them for information? Are you good for anything else?"

"T-traitor?" Gwen stammered. "_ We're _the traitors here?"

"Yes Gwen you are. Part of me always knew you'd turn on me one day. I hoped against hope that you would see reason and remain faithful to me, but it seems the day has come at last. I hoped too much. By allying yourself with Merlin and this 'Pilgrim' character you so readily take orders from, you've made it perfect clear that your loyalties lie only with the foolish lust Arthur feels for you."

Sad little tears dripped her perfectly pale cheeks.

"Why've you done this me, Gwen? Haven't I been a good mistress, a good friend?" The handmaid stared, aghast. How dare she? This insane, monstrous woman, who had proven herself to be more than power hungry, accused _her _of betrayal and treachery?

She's gone completely mad, Gwen thought fearfully. In no more than a few second Morgana's demeanor had shifted from fiery anger to sorrow filled and pitiful. Which was true? Could the old Morgana be reached somehow, hidden deep inside?

"Of course you have," she replied gently. "Please Morgana, I never meant to betray anyone. You least of all. I love Arthur yes, but you're my best friend. Nothing could ever make me turn. Not ever."

"Then why did you turn on me?" Morgana shot back nastily. Her eyes were red and puffed. "My magic raises me above the common folk. You fear me. Is that it?"

"Of course not," Gwen said almost too quickly. "I've thought for ages that Uther's views on magic were skewed. My father died because of them, remember? Arthur and I accepted Merlin's magic; we would have accepted yours as well."

"Would you have?" the sorceress sneered. 'Arthur accepted Merlin. He agonized over his impending execution. But why? Out of genuine friendship and affection, or out of fear of sorcerers like my sister and I? His pet sorcerer kept him safe for so long. How much longer would he have lasted had he let Merlin die? He couldn't have wished to save him to protest his father's policies. Were that so, why then did he not rise to defend the countless innocents who burned before his eyes?"

"Arthur and Merlin are like brothers," Gwen replied carefully. "They love one another, whether they'll admit it or not. Arthur sought to save Merlin out of love and a wish to see him live. He'd have done the same for you. You're his sister. He loves you."

"He would not, and does not," Morgana whispered. Her fingers twitched like a pair of tiny crabs. They twisted the clothe of her skirt, rippling it like the waves of a fitful sea. "Arthur is a far better man than his father. He always has been. Yet he is still far from righteous. Even now he likely sits with Merlin and his comrades plotting my demise. No. If my brother truly loved me he would have seen what Uther really is long ago. He would join my cause, my crusade to bring magic back to these lands."

"Arthur knows magic isn't evil now, Merlin showed him that. He'll be king one day. Things will change."

"Indeed," Morgana agreed curtly. "Things will be changing very soon. As we speak all of the five kingdoms ride to war. Together Uther and the other kings will die, and all of Albion will fall under my rule. A witch queen will take her rightful place of authority. Lancelot, you remember him of course, the commoner knight? - has taken possession of a dragons egg, and stands at Merlin's side. They will ride out to stop the battle, delivering the egg directly to my sister."

"So she can perform you demonic ritual," Gwen finished, head hanging low in defeat.

Again, Morgana giggled.

Just then, Gaius stirred against the wall. He coughed violently, chest heaving, head thrown back. Bloody rivulets dribbled down his chin. Scarlet smeared his teeth. A warm substance splattered across Gwen's cheek. Though she could not see it, the harsh smell told her it was blood.

"Y-y-you," he croaked blearily. "Y-you will not...win. M-Merlin...will s-stop you."

New blood gushed readily from his nose. Morgana gave a shrill cackle. She turned to her former handmaiden.

"Have you any flimsy justifications for Gaius' actions? All these years he knew about my powers. Ever since I was a child plagued by prophetic visions, thought to be nightmares. He _must_ have known. Did he help me? No. All he did was fill me with useless drugs and watch as I lost my mind with fear, not knowing who or what I was. He knew, yet, like Merlin, did nothing to help me. Can that be justified Gwen? Can any cryptic parable really make that right?"

Gwen found she had nothing to say. While Arthur and Merlin's actions over the last several days had been for the greater good, these sounded nothing the king if sometimes cold physician. Why hadn't he or Merlin helped her?

"N-never meant to...to hurt...wanted you...s-safe..." Gaius moaned.

Again the sorceress laughed.

"Safe, eh? Well as you can see I'm perfectly safe now. My sister was kind enough to teach me, and now I'm more powerful than you could ever hope to be. Merlin will stop me, you say? He's Emrys? By allowing Uther to live, Merlin let hundreds die. Men, women, children. Merlin's no messiah. His blood will bathe my hands."

"Darkness...t-to his light...the hatred, to h-his love," the physician mumbled, lantern like eyes boring into those of his captor. "Emrys...the black dragoness... So it was said, so...it shall be. Morgana...child, I'm so s-sorry. Please...don't doom yourself to this fate..." the declaration hung in midair. No one spoke.

Then-

_BOOM! _

Around them the room shook. Cobwebs fell from the high ceiling. Loose bits of stone and spackle tumbled with them. Below their feet the floor cracked and split. Deftly Morgana leapt back towards the cell door, fastening her fingers around the door frame. Along the far wall a jagged line formed at the point where wall and floor met. That part of the floor groaned under the pressure it could no longer hold. And then it fell, giving way to the weight of the walls, becoming a straw littered ramp to the entrance of a rocky tunnel.

"Damnit Merlin! We don't want to kill her!"

A blonde head, dusted with debrief, poked through the tunnel's mouth. Moments later Arthur emerged fully, looking rather annoyed.

"Sorry!" a voice squeaked after him. "At least we're in the right place." Merlin emerged followed closely by two other men. Lancelot, who held an egg with webbed cracks covering its shell tightly to his chest, and a huge Druid man, at least seven feet tall.

Arthur craned his neck upward, gaze moving from Gwen, to Gaius, and finally to Morgana. The prince's half sister however, was focused on Lancelot. More specifically, what he carried.

"_Ganiar__Levates__!" _She slashed her hand through the air in a wild gesture, casting the crown aside as she did so. The narrow tunnel collapsed. Leaving the invaders without an escape route.

"Thank you so much brother dear. You've brought what I need. Saves me so much trouble. _Agnis__!" _Fire jetted from her finger tip straight at Lancelot's chest. However, her shot missed, instead hitting the egg just a few inches lower. Watching from the sidelines, Merlin knew instantly that this was why they'd needed to bring the egg along. For this exact eggs cracks flashed with an inner light. Heat filled the shell. Then, the egg split open.

**So how was that? The rescue will have at least one more part, and then we finally get on to the big battle that I've been waiting for months to get to write. That the part I've had planned pretty much since the beginning. Please Review**


	20. Rescue Part III

Contrary to popular belief, the entirety of life does not flash before one's eyes at the point of death. Rather, it sort of floated by, the Pilgrim thought. Or so her would have thought were his thoughts not an incomprehensible jumble of images, melodies and windswept voices whispering to one another across the vast plane of emptiness

This was the cracked realm between the worlds. The infinite void where it was said dwelt god himself.

The Pilgrim lay on death's doorstep.

While his mortal body lay motionless atop Kilgharrah's flying form, his soul drifted backward, forward, in between. Chains of time slithered like snakes, bound in place. Time had no hold in this place. For here time did not truly exist. All was one here. Threaded fates of old friends long past shimmered in an ethereal misty light, greeting him. However, off in the distance two thread shone brightest. One brilliant gold, the other a mystical silver.

Two sides of the same coin.

One King. One Prophet.

Neither could exist without the other, for alone they would surely fail, and every thread would be broken, stained black by the poisonous hatred that threatened to consume all things.

_"Emrys..." _the name echoed through the mist. It was a name so very familiar to him, yet now it was no longer his own. Merlin had risen to his destiny, and taken on the mantle of the bearer of foreknowledge. The one person who not only saw the future, but knew it to be true.

Remnants of the knowing remained, leaving him hopeful yet weary. He still knew what was to come. The power of the crystal cave, the heart of magic itself, still surged within his soul. Demons would be unleashed. Armies would clash together, reducing Albion's society to splinters. And Arthur would be at the heart of all it all to lead them. The Once and Future King would unite the lands with Excalibur raised to the heavens. He would fight for love and glory.

Memories passed him by like faded paint on a canvas. Every last instant of his thousand year lifespan came back in a rush of light and color. His first spell. His first time saving Arthur's life. A lover's gentle kiss. A basinet floating on a lake. The loving touch of his daughter, and the smile she wore on her wedding day. The Wicked Day of destiny. The death of his closest friend, and his departure from Camelot to parts unknown.

He wondered the farthest reaches of the planet. He climbed the highest mountains and delved into the deepest forests. The universities of Italy provided a huge archive of arcane knowledge. The mythic beasts of Greece were a marvel to study. He froze to form an icy bridge, and crossed to lands in the far west. The magic of the red man came easily to him. Their power was drawn from nature itself, the world around them granted abilities beyond those of mortal men. As always he was a willing student, determined to learn the ways of the world. How else could he guide those chosen to determine it's fate?

New heroes popped up all over the earth. Figures destined for greatness beyond imagining. It was these men and women who shaped the history of the world, and for each of them, the Pilgrim was there, watching from the shadows, silently guiding them on their way. Very rarely did he intervene directly. The best of teachers, he found, let their students discover some lessons on their own, and stood on the sidelines to secretly cheer them on.

Wars divided and created nations. Empires rose and fell. Yet the legend of King Arthur and Merlin the great enchanter endured, surviving on the winds breath.

Of course, many of the facts were distorted by the passing of the ages. Lancelot and Guinevere had been remembered as illicit lovers, whose affair and betrayal had led to Arthur's doom. Morgause and Morgana were often mistaken for one another, their acts and deeds melding together so that it was difficult to tell who did what, and whether or not they were separate women at all. Nimueh and Freya melded together as well. Both names were given for the lady of the lake in historical texts. Gaius was forgotten completely, it was never thought that Merlin, mentor to the king, would have a wise counselor of his own. Merlin was often misspelled as Merlyn, and portrayed as an old man aging backwards in time, caught between infinite wisdom and infuriating senility.

But nevertheless, the legends remained. The bits of legend that truly mattered remained intact. King Arthur. Lancelot the Brave, greatest of knights. Merlin the WiseGeneration after generation heard tales of the great battles waged by Albion's one true king, of the quest for the holy grail, of the justice that reigned supreme during Camelot's golden age. The Pilgrim chuckled at the inconsistincies. Historians never did get it quite right.

Through all of his years of life he waited for the right moment. For the knowing to tell him when it time for him to return to Camelot. To brave the time stream that bound moments together.

Now time was coming round full circle again, for him at least.

He felt the dragon egg hatch. Felt the new soul blossom into life. A scaly thread appeared before him.

_"You felt that I trust, old friend," _Kilgharrah's voice rang through his subconscious. His ears were still working it seemed. He was still alive, at least until the time for came for his last enchantment.

"I did," he croaked with withered lips. The world of the living slowly came back into focus. Kilgharrah's spiny back thumped rhythmically beneath him. "She will be a mighty dragoness my friend. I feel...the time has come. Please, fly towards Badon hill. My death must come soon, if Arthur is to live to see the battle's end."

"This soon? Even now, after all these years, you would still die to save him?"

"Always. After all, it's my life's calling."

**LINEBREAK**

Roughly the size of a greyhound, the newborn dragoness was coated with a layer of sleek black scales, streamlined for flight. Bumped ridges edged the criwn of her head, giving her the appearance of a bemused reptilian princess. She yawned, stretching her legs and unfurling a pair of small leathery wings. The rope thin black tail swung pleasantly back and forth.

A rush of strange new feelings swam through the dragoness' young mind. These were senses, she knew. This was what it was like to feel the firm ground beneath your feet. Sounds rippled the air around the minuscule slits at her temples rather than echoing in her subconscious. She could hear.

Lancelot felt it as well. Strange tinglings prickled his skin. For am moments he actually thought he had claws, scales and a tail. That he was a hatchling dragon experiencing the world for the first time. The bond between an Oberan familiar and their host was a strong one indeed. Eyelids crusted with unuse peeled open.

Huge violet orbs gaped, awestruck at the sight of the physical world. The forms of the people crowding the collapsed cell were far different than she'd imagined. Verown was huge, as was his wolf companion, who apparently thought the hatchling was rather threatening, because he'd taken to growling timidly at his masters heels. Arthur was handsome and blonde, holy enchanted sword at his hip. The very definition of princely royalty. Merlin's ears were bigger than she'd expected. Nothing about him screamed 'divinely begotten prophet' but she could feel the power radiating from him like light from the sun. He was who he was.

The prisoners Gwen and Gaius, who she had never met but had heasrd mentioned on a number of occasions, were discheveledly hanging by their ankles a few inches above the ground. The elderly physician was asleep, but the girl was pretty, and looked rather nice even in her torn peasants dress.

Morgana was terrifying. A frenzied mess of a woman with black pits for eyes. Predatory. If this was not the very image of evil, then nothing was.

All of them were staring. Shocked.

"Lancelot," she chirped. "I hatched!" The words escaped her lips, unpracticed as they were with physical speech, as barely audible squeaks and squeals.

"...I can see that." Lancelot said back. Shattered remains of egg shell were strewn about his ankles. He kicked them away absently, lowering himself to kneel at the dragoness' side. "What...what should I call you?" They'd had this conversation before. Apparently, despire their awareness within their eggs, dragon mothers didn't distribute names until after the hatching.

"I...I don't know," she replied . She'd expected Kilgharrah to give her a name, as he was her only fellow dragon. But he wasn't here. And Honestly, she hadn't thought about it really. How does one choose a name for themselves that they'll be known as from cradle to grave?

"How cute," Morgana drawled from the door frame. "But I'm afraid I have to interrupt. You can talk already, dragon? Pity, I only anticipated putting up with your dying squawks instead of your begging for mercy. No matter." She slashed a hand through the air. Her eyes burned gold.

A chunk of rocky debris lifted itself from the ground and launched like a spear through the air directly at the dragons throat.

_"Glathin!" _Merlin shouted. With a light wurring sound a bubble of protective energy bloomed into life around the Warlock and his companions. It gave of a purplish light, giving those within it strange magenta complections. Jerking back from the shock of the hatching, the three warriors drew their weapons. Verown's wolf lowered itself to a pouncing position. It's hackles stood like daggers.

"Get out of the way, Morgana," said Merlin. "We don't want to fight you. Just let us take Gwen and Gaius and we won't have to hurt you."

"Are you completely mental?" Arthur asked him. "We discussed this didn't we? If we ran into Morgana we'd take her together."

"Only if it came to that," Merlin answered. His hands shook with the effort of maintaining the shield. "I know that you're new to the whole 'battling evil sorcerers bent on world domination' thing Arthur, but I try to keep the body count to a minimum at all costs. If Morgana will stand aside, we should let her live. We came here to save Gwen, not get revenge."

"You _are_ mental! She's trying kill us and take over the bloody world for Gods sake! Why on earth should we let her go without a fight?"

"Oh don't worry Arthur," said Morgana, cracking her fingers menacingly. "I've no intention of you lot leaving at all. Merlin's delusional sense of morality does get rather tiresome, doesn't it? Defeating one's opponents is difficult when you refuse to dispose of them properly. Luckily for me, I have more than enough wisdom to know that ending your lives will only profit me. Goodbye then. _Ignotam Shuleuse!" _

A wave of concussive force exploded from her fingertips. It smashed against the shield with the impact of a meteorite. The shield shuddered, before blinking out of existence. Merlin groaned.

"Alright," he shrugged. "We fight then. But only do what you have to, Arthur." he nodded gravely.

"I intend to, Merlin. And don't tell me what to do. Magical messiah or not I'm still the prince here." The room gave a collective eye roll. "Then again, if this is what you deal with all the time, I'm not paying you nearly enough, am I?"

"Not even close."

"We get out of here alive I'll see about remedying that."

"Not to be a bother or anything," Gwen called from her place on the wall. "But could you two stop bickering like five year olds and get us down from here please?" Arthur whipped around to face her, acknowledging the maids presence fully for the first time.

"Oh, Guienivere, quite right," he said flusteredly. "One moment. I'll be right there. Sorry."

Suddenly clamorous sound erupted from the dungeon antechamber. The shouts of a dozen armed men resounded far down the corridors as they thundered down the winding staircase, their metal armor clanging with each step. The guards had heard the cell collapse and were coming to the regent queen's aid.

"Are you willing to kill innocent guards?" Morgana asked. "Because you'll have to be if you want to get at me. Otherwise my men will carve you to luncheon meat while I watch. Then again, they're not innocent at all. All who do Uther's bidding are guilty of some crime." She backed out of the room, smirking fiendishly before turning to face the oncoming guardsmen and putting on the facade of a damsel in distress.

"Help, sorcerers! They've reanimated the prince's body and brought it here to mock me, kill them!"

Swords and crossbows ready, the guards stormed into the room. Arthur exchanged brief looks with his companions. Merlin sighed, dejected.

"Knock them out then. Don't hurt them too much!" he cried just as their opponents reached them, and they were thrown into the heat of battle.

Castle guards were well trained in those days, but they were not true soldiers. This would be an easy skirmish, though it was far easier to kill an opponent outright than it was to incapacitate them with non-lethal blows, especially in such close quarters.

Arthur slid forward on his heels to meet them. Right foot forward, he thrust Excalibur's hilt sideways, bludgeoning the lead guard in the left temple, knocking him out cold instantly. Quickly he spun around ands swept his leg along the ground, tripping several guards at they approached. Merlin took to flinging hunks of rock telekinetically. He aimed for the dividing leather strips in between the armor plates. He'd put it on Arthur enough times to have every weak point memorized. Verown, with his tree trunk arms and mighty claymore, was a titan in battle. His wolf darted tween legs, slashing at shins with claws. Gnashing with teeth.

Lancelot knelt of the ground arms protectively wrapped round the dragoness, his sword raised in front of them to block any stragglers who managed to make it to them. Having been just born her scales were relatively thin. A well placed weapon could pierce them with ease.

"Sire!" a voice called over the commotion. Sir Leon stood in the door, Sir Godric at his side, the other knights just behind them. "We're here to help!"

The knights swam into the fray, flanking the guards. For nearly a minute they beat away at them with the blunt ends of their blades, until the guard regiment had been reduced to a single man with a crossbow. Like his fellows this man was beaten to submission, but not before he got off a single shot.

Merlin didn't see it in time, he had his back turned as he moved to release Gwen. Nor did he see Morgana reenter the room hold a dark colored amulet.

The crossbow bolt was perfectly align, and made it's mark at the end of the dragoness' long tail. Just an inch of scales were exposed in the curve of Lancelot's elbow.

She shrieked in agony. Blood began to trickle from ther wound. Merlin saw whaty was about to happen, but was too slow. Morgana waved her hand, calling the blood soaked bolt to her hand. Grinning, she shattered the amulet at her feet. Black mist enveloped her, and she disappeared within it's shadowy folds.

"NO!" he bellowed. But to no avail. She was already gone.


	21. Wisdom passed

**Okay this is an important chapter because I've finally surpassed the number of chapters I had before I condensed a bunch of the chapters. So this means that all you people who haven't been able to review because the site thought you already had, should now be able to again. So, please Review! I love to get your feedback.**

Retaking Camelot castle was not difficult after Morgana's overly conspicuous departure.

Having see the regent queen use magic the guards were easily convinced of her treachery. Though battered and bruised, the guardsmen spoke their apologies honestly to the Prince and his companions as he helped Sir Leon to carry Gaius towards the physician's chambers. At first glance it was obvious that he was no creature of Necromancy.

Morgana's words had all been lies.

Despite her own injuries Gwen was able to concoct the proper remedies for Gaius' wounds. Over the years she'd picked up a few things from the various traders who went in and out of her father's shops. Several of them traveling apothecaries. With a few sprinkles of leaves, some dried fungus, and a little water, she'd produced a thick orange paste that would prevent nearly any infection. When he awoke the elderly man would be sore, but would live.

Afterwards the handmaiden collapsed onto a cot in the infirmary.

Verown and his wolf were off patrolling the walls. Draped in the cover of night, the pair were a silent force of vigilance. Were Morgana to launch an attack they would be the first to know.

The newborn dragoness, who Lancelot had Christened Apalala for the old goddess of the sky, was curled up comfortably beside her master in a bale of hay at the back of the royal stables.

Arthur and Merlin however found no time for rest. No matter how direly they needed it.

Shoulder to shoulder the prince and his one-time manservant paced the length of the castle vault.

Above Merlin's hand floated a weak orange flame. It's spluttering light case oblong shadows over the rooms strange magical object Uther had even suspected to be magical was stored somewhere in this room.

Said Artifacts were recorded in a leather bound book which Arthur held open against his forearm.

Pensively he ran a finger down the list. The yellowed papyrus was rough to touch, and felt like gravel on the skin.

Several of the tall shelves had been cleared off, their contents strewn about the floor. The vault's door hung ajar, a brass key still in the keyhole.

Morgana had been there.

Sometime during their bout with the castle guards she snuck off somewhere, for a time anyway. Now they knew looked up from the list.

"Do you know anything about teleportation magic?" Merlin shook his head.

"No, wish I did. If I could just disappear and reappear anywhere I wanted I'd do it all the time. Travel all over, escape your ridiculous chores."

"And then I would have to come along to scrape up your remains once you'd teleported yourself off a cliff" Arthur shot back.

"Off a cliff? Come on, I'm not that incompetent. Worst comes to worst I'll end up in a river or on top of a wall or," he paused. Mischief glinted in his eyes. "Or into your chambers when Gwen's staying the night."

Arthur's cheeks burned an embarrassed pink. His hand gave an involuntary twitch. Guinevere had stayed many evenings in his chambers over that last year. They'd done nothing passionate, Arthur was too noble to do such things when no it seemed legitimate marriage could be made between them, a royal and a servant.

"H...h-how did you-"

"How did I know?" Merlin finished, grinning ear to ear.

"Honestly Arthur, I'm your servant. You didn't think I would notice the dress in the back of your wardrobe? It wasn't that hard to figure out. She stays the night with you, keeps some clothes in your room so she has something to change into in the morning, and then eats breakfast in the kitchens with the other servants. Don't worry, secrets safe with me. I'm really happy for you two. I hope it works out."

A long, awkward silence followed. Nearly an entire minute passed before finally, Arthur laughed. Merlin joined in, and soon their jovial chuckles filled the vault.

It lifted their spirits to know that even in the direst of circumstances, they were still able to exchange good friendly banter.

Whether demons were on the loose or not, the pairs friendship would remain strong. After all, they'd faced horrible odds before, and never once did that stop them from teasing one another.

"Then did you see what she used to get herself out of there?" Arthur asked. He lowered the book to examine an odd looking broomstick leaned against a shelf.

"Some sort of necklace I think," Merlin answered. "Black smoke came out of it. Then she was gone." He paused, weighing his words.

"Pardon me for asking, but why does it matter what she took? If she already used it then we can't. We don't have much time, and if we don't get to Badon Hill soon the battle can't be stopped."

"Two things," Arthur replied. "One, sometimes during raids on magic dwelling things were confiscated in bulk. Perhaps, there is another of these necklace's somewhere here, and we can use it to get to the Hill faster. And two, I'm hoping you can make use of the crystal of Neatid." Merlin stared. He hadn't thought of that!

The last time he'd used the crystal, it had shown him the future. It had shown him Kilgharrah attacking Camelot. But he hadn't been a prophet then. He hadn't yet visited the crystal cave, and awakened his sense of knowing. Perhaps now, it would yield more pleasing results.

"It comes from your cave of crystals, right? Maybe you can get another of your prophet, vision, knowing...things."

"Arthur that's brilliant!" clapping his friend on the back, he dashed to the doorway and retrieved the key it's hole. Robes trailing behind him, the warlock sprinted towards the rear of the vault, where he knew the crystal to be kept behind a wrought iron gate.

"You're welcome!" Arthur called after him. Shaking his head, he returned to the search.

**LINEBREAK**

Carefully Merlin lifted the crystal from the heavily bolted chest. It was just as he'd remembered. A hunk of pale opaque stone that shone like the stars above. From the moment his skin came into contact with the smooth rock he knew that this peek into the future would be different. Closing his eyes he gulped a deep prepatory breath before allowing the magic to flow.

An unearthly light bloomed at the crystal's heart.

Prickling pains danced across Merlin's skin. The hairs on the back of his neck stood upright. Power dripped through the entirety of his being.

Yes. This was already different.

The first time he'd used the crystal, his eyes had been glued to it's glassy surface, forced to watch future events roll past the window through time and reality. But now it was if he was actually being pulled forward towards the mist shrouded images that had only begun to form. His eyes, burning gold, were being urged towards the crystal, some invisible force tugging at them by the retinae.

Then, in a whirl of sound and color, Merlin's world melted and reformed in a single blurred instant.

He stood in a sweet scented meadow, filled with blooming flowers. Sunshine shone down through the branches of tall beach trees. Fallen petals wafted in a light summer's breeze.

Merlin blinked frantically. His heart beat like a war drum. How was he here? Where was here? Had the crystal transported him somewhere, actually pulled him through to some other world?

"Nothing like that my dear boy. Here doesn't really exist at all. It's but a dream of my own imagination." Merlin spun round.

At the meadow's dead center stood a tree stump. Withered bark covered it like burnt skin, clinging to a recently dead corpse. On it sat an elderly man with a long white beard and a staff grasped lightly in a pale decrepit hand. He was positively beaming, his baby blue eyes radiating love. Were angels bound to a mortal form, surely they would take one such as this. Weak in appearance, yet thunderously powerful, heart pure and kind. Standing in his presence alone was enough leave you at peace. He made you feel...happy inside.

Immediately the knowing came. This was the Pilgrim. The Emrys who came before him. The Emrys who would one day succeed him.

Around him amongst the flowers sat the strangest variety of people ever gathered in one place.

Another elderly man with a staff of his own sat beside a magnificent lion, which he scratched affectionately behind the ears. He smoked a pipe, occasionally puffing smoke rings that danced over the lion's mane. He was the living epitome of the color white. White beard, white mustaches, white robes. A white wizard.

To their left sprawled a man in a brown coat. Tousled brown hair hung over his eyes. He wore a sand colored coat and a cherry red bowtie. He twiddled a metallic looking tool tween his fingers. Several behind him stood a blue cubicle with bearing partially english writing. A whirring light topped it.

"Wonderful to see you again at last, Merlin" the Pilgrim continued. "I suppose you didn't expect the crystal to bring you here did you? Well, that's quite a simple explanation. But first, let me introduce my friend."

"Gandalf the White," he indicated the white wizard. "Maia guardian of Middle-Earth. A world far different from our own, yet no less awe inspiring." He gestured to the Lion. "Aslan, the great lion, and true king of Narnia. In my time I've met many animals who could speak, but none are greater than he. Some say his kingdom is Avalon itself, others, a distant land across the sea." He pointed to the man with the bowtie. "And last but not least the Doctor, last surviving Gallyfrean, last of the Timelords. That's quite a wonderful box he's got there. With it you can see so many worlds, meet so many people...They've all been such wonderful friends...They've come to see me off before I go. I'm dying, you know of course. The crystal cave will have shown you."

"We will leave you now, old friend" spoke Aslan. "You've must to teach this boy, and so little time to do so." He rose to his haunches, padded to the Pilgrim, and embraced him. A few moments passed. The Pilgrim kissed the lion once on the head, and Aslan faded away. Both Gandalf and the doctor followed suit.

"Goodbye old, friend" Gandalf said wistfully. With a shimmer, the wizard was gone.

"Is it how you remember it?" the Doctor whispered. The Pilgrim grinned.

"Oh mostly. I don't think I'll ever be as good at this as you are, Doctor. Time travel is rather jarring." The Doctor shrugged.

"Doing things in the wrong order is like that I suppose. Except for me of course. Well, I've got to be off. Lord knows what Rory and Amy have gotten up to without me. Goodbye, Pilgrim. Until we meet again."

The Doctor turned and skipped to the blue box and stepped inside.

The box too faded from sight.

"Now then," the Pilgrim turned back to Merlin, who didn't quite understand what was going on. "Where were we? Ah yes, why you're here. You see Merlin, you may be the Prophet now, but my connection to the crystal cave remains intact however frayed it may be. When you touched the crystal of Neatid, you were brought here to my dreams. Dreams are an easy realm to enter. And I know for a fact that now is the time when I must pass it along to you." Merlin quirked an eyebrow.

"Pass what along to me?"

"Required knowledge, and power beyond imagining. From one prophet to another." He offered the staff to him. "This belongs to you now. You'll be needing it very soon."

Hesitantly, Merlin stepped forward and took the staff. The lean carved wood felt familiar in his hands. Like he'd held it before. Every knot, every splintered edge, was familiar.

"With that you may learn to channel your power safely. Now, I've got quite a lot to say, so please, just listen. The battle at Badon hill cannot be stopped no matter what you do. The demonic hordes will be unleashed by Morgana's ritual, and they will spread their blight across the lands. Together, you and Arthur must stop them. On the battle field you will unleash a power unlike the world has ever seen, or shall ever see again. For that is why you are on this earth. To wield God's own power in the name of the one true king.

Demon's are very peculiar creatures in that they cannot exist on this plane without a mortal host. Cenred was such a host for the demon of Agmar, and his armies will be such for his armies. There lives cannot be saved as much as it pains me to say so. The Weaver will meet her doom at this battle. In order for Agmar to be destroyed, a soul must anchor it down into the abyss. That is it's hidden strength, and its only vitality. Someone must die to kill it. You will find all these things to be true. Beyond doubt. The knowing will show you that." He paused for a moment.

"You and Morgana will have your own battle. A fated duel to decide all. She's been driven mad. By fear, by rage. I know that you feel that you could have saved her. Perhaps you could have. But it does not do to dwell on what may have been, for such things can only uproot and destroy your will to live on. She will kill you. And you her. Yet you will live to see another day. Do not ask how that is, you will know the answer soon enough.

"Uther will fall, whether by his daughters hand or at the hand of another warrior, it does not matter. Arthur must be made king before the five kingdoms, and you will be the one to crown him. Destiny has come to a head. The time has come. Now, I have but a single magical technique. Imagine in your mind Badon hill. Let your magic spread to that spot and take in every detail of it. With staff in hand, spin around a single time. And there, you've just invented apparition. Goodbye, Merlin. I will see you on the battlefield. And when I do, I will know for certain that my end has come."


	22. The Last Enchantment

Despite being a warrior of great experience and substantial age, Uther Pendragon had been unsure of what to expect of the upcoming battle. He was a masterful strategist, and had spent many a year studying the battle tactics of the various Lords and Kings who ruled the lands adjacent to his. Cenred's battle tactics were very straight forward and relied on the sheer might of numbers to gain victory rather than careful planning and positioning. His soldiers were well equipped and expertly trained, so this approach was usually rather effective.

But Uther could guess none of this during the hard gallop towards Cenred's stronghold. The sword in his hand was cumbersome and unfamiliar, the ornate armor that encased his aging form, inscribed with a gilded Pendragon seal at the breast, was more a form of imprisonment than of protection. His mind was a swirling haze of rage filled sadness. Heaviness tugged at his eyelids, just holding back a flood of hot salty tears.

Arthur was dead. He was gone.

That fact alone dominated all others. Thoughts of Morgause and sorcerers and magic and Emrys, the one supposedly foretold to be some magic messiah faded into the background. None of that mattered anymore. Cenred's men had taken the life of his only son. Somewhere in the back of Uther's mind a voice screamed futility that this was just another of the horrific nightmares that plagued his sleep. But it was not so.

The fates, it seemed, were cruel mistresses indeed. First they had taken Ygraine, the love of his life, and the queen of his heart. And now they had seen fit to take the son she had died giving birth to. One of the two people he valued above the entirety of Camelot.

Vengeance would be his, and only when Cenred's blood stained his hands would his soul know any semblance of peace.

Whatever the king's state of mind, no military training nor intuitive sixth sense could have predicted what he found waiting at Badon Hill.

Alongside his knight-generals Uther pulled his horse to an abrupt halt as they approached the arch of trees that marked the grassy corridor that led to the hills base. Badon hill was Albion's central passage, the only passage through which a sizable army could pass with haste. Several similar forest corridors existed around the circumference, sprouting from the hills base to weave through Albion's plains to each of the five great kingdoms.

Behind them the legions of cavalry and infantry men stopped in their tracks. There were thousands of them; all armed with the finest weapons smiting could produce. The armies of Camelot were known for steadfast loyalty, and unfathomable might on the battlefield.

From miles away the clashing of steel on steel could be heard ringing through the air. Screams filled with terrified anguish echoed like larks song. The sky was stained a murky black. Clouds spun as serpentine coils intermingled with lightning and dim scarlet light, shaken only by the occasional clap of deafening thunder.

Uther narrowed his eyes. A battle had already begun? Here of all places?

A lone figure, features made indistinguishable by the distance, strode on to the hills summit. Then a voice boomed out over the landscape. A voice Uther recognized instantly as Morgause.

"Has the petty king come to avenge his son's bloodied remains?" she cackled shrilly. "Come then, Uther the murderer! Just know that I stand with Cenred, and my power fills their blades!" Still cackling, she stalked back over the hill out of sight.

"To arms!" Uther cried. He raised his sword and turned in the saddle to rally the troops, digging his heels angrily into his mounts sides. "To arms!" The soldiers roared in reply, brandishing their weapons and charging forth to follow the kings charge up the grassy hillside.

What they saw as they passed through the trees would forever haunt dreams. Of the survivors.

As soon as the ground began to elevate beneath the soldiers armored feet Badon's adjacent sides were thrown into view.

A sea of chaotic red movement swarmed around the hill, consuming the once lush vegetation that once covered the landscape. It rose and broke like the breaking of the tide.

Banners of various colors rose from the waves, trembling as those who held them were torn to ribbons by predatory talons and fangs.

This was not a sea.

These were the armies of the other four kingdoms, Uther realized with horror.

Every last fighting man in the land was here, and they were all dying terrible, painful deaths.

Cenred's army was immediately recognizable by its dark colors. Across each man's armor was painted a white 'M' that shimmered hauntingly in the twilight.

But Cenred's army was no long Cenred's army. Nor were its members human.

Obsidian black horns erupted from foreheads. Oily feathers sprouted from forearms, and blood dribbled from fanged mouths as the demonically enhanced warriors devastated all who stood in their way wicked and saintly alike. True hell had been unleashed upon Albion.

Amongst the red of blood and demonic moved a splash of green-brown. Two groups of sorcerers moved through the fight, one garbed in green, wielding sword and crude staves. The Druids. The others were hooded and cloaked. Morgause's agents and followers.

Uther felt terrified goosebumps begin to clam up his skin. Suddenly sweat soaked the fabric of his underclothes.

What was this madness?

Panic stricken, he snapped his reins urging his horse up the hills. His fear only grew as more and more of the war came into view. Bodies heaped in intervals along the plain. All forms of ranks had broken, and individual soldiers ran in all directions, bent only on their survival. No military goal mattered when Demons entered the picture. This was more a battle of beasts then of armies.

Demons can smell the sins of men you see. The flesh of the wicked fuels them.

Then, just as Uther crested the hilltop the hordes turned and closed in on Camelot's army, closing off the only way by which to flee. Wildly they turned to defend themselves. Swords and spears stabbed at the incoming attackers. Shields were raised, which demons hit with unspeakable force. The defense held for the moment. But only just.

"_Aeros Iacio!" _

A great gust blew over the hill. Uther found himself ripped from his horse and thrown roughly to the ground. His generals were forced back down towards the battle, still clinging desperately to their mounts.

"Magnificent isn't it?"

Raising himself on his elbows, Uther looked up to see Morgause walk haughtily to his side. The robes of the high priestess flowed lazily over the armored plates that shielded her torso. Held high, poised to strike, the staff that was once Nimueh's trembled with power. Black lines crisscrossed around its glowing tip. These wove themselves around the witch's body, shimmering faintly, as if a translucent spider's web was being spun around her. A similar thread appeared from Uther's own chest, only half visible, connected to the others.

Unknown to the king, it was this that anchored him to the demonic beasts, and them to him.

"With a simple but powerful enchantment Cenred's forces have become the perfect weapons. Living tools of death and destruction." She spread her arms in a wide gesture. "And it's all for you your Majesty. These creatures have been brought here for you and you alone. The other kings have come here to kill you, for these creatures will remain as long as you continue to draw breath."

"Hold your tongue, witch" Uther growled. He climbed creakily to his feet, raising his sword to a ready position. "Those who stand with my son's murderer will die. You are no exception."

Effortlessly Morgause sidestepped the king's charge. Sweeping her staff she sent him tumbling back to the ground with a pulse of telekinetic energy.

"Look at the pain and suffering your actions have wrought Uther. Your people cry out in agony. The whole of Albion is in ruin, because of you. Tell me, do you feel empathy for these people, as you did not for the thousands you murdered in the Purge? Will the screams of these men haunt your nightmares? Regardless of your feelings, it ends tonight. Every man woman and child unrightfully killed in your name shall be avenged at long last."

"I've murdered no one witch," Uther grunted, again rising to stand. "The same cannot be said of you. It was your actions, not mine that brought these creatures here. Today's blood is on your hands." A snarl curled his lips. Brows knitting together menacingly, he continued. "You wear the same robes a former friend of mine once wore. You were Nimueh's apprentice then, weren't you? She filled your mind with the poisons of magic, and now you stand here in her stead to avenge your people? Your mistress is the one guilty of murder, not I. T'was her actions that showed men the magic for what it was. The Devils hand. Not once did I think Nimueh a coward. Regardless, she shall die as well. If I am to accomplish anything great in my lifetime, it will be to purge magic from these lands forever."

"Nimueh was my foster mother, if you must know, and her absence here is none of your concern." Morgause drawled, drawing a sword to wield with the staff, sounding only half interested. "My father, Gorlois sent me to her when I was very small to hide me from you. I'm the daughter of perhaps the only real friend you ever had. He deceived you, didn't he? He sent me away when your law declared that all children showing signs of magic must be turned over to your guard for slaughter. Then again, you deceived him as well, impregnated his wife while he was away. Perhaps you're even. As for the men who will die today? Justice always has its cost. And your death is more than justified."

At the same instant the two opponents charged inward. Sword on sword, they began to fight.

During his youth Uther had been a prodigy with a sword. Ambrosius, his father, had thrown great tournaments in his honor simply to display his son's great skill. Arthur had shown the same early promise….

But years of sitting quietly on the throne with little to no chance to fight had worn his fighting edge down to a blunt stump.

Morgause's footwork was incredibly fast. Nimble as a dancer she quickstepped around the graying king.

Eyes fierce as those of a lioness, she struck. Up, down, left, left, right. Uther parried each blow. Each time the blades made contact his arm was shook to the bone. She was better than him. Younger. The black thread hung in his line of vision.

"What enchantments have you beset me with witch?" he demanded. He stepped forward on the offensive.

"Don't mind the thread." Morgause replied, blocking his slash with a precise wrist movement. "It's just an insurance policy."

"You are no daughter of Gorlois. He was a good and noble man. No child of his would weave such evil. You lie!"

"I do not," she quipped, ducking another attack. Spinning on the ground she swept up one of his legs. Taking this opportunity she lunged, bringing her swords hilt down on his chest. He crumpled to his knees. Morgause stood over him, watching pensively.

"As much joy as killing you would bring me, I've promised your execution to another. Sister dear, would you be kind enough to join us?"

"Gladly."

Then, as in a thousand of his nightmares, Uther watched in disbelieving terror as his daughter stepped onto the hill, surrounded by whirling black threads, wearing the smile of a mad woman. Morgana walked to his side, and knelt. A cold steel blade was laid against his throat.

"Hello,Father dear" she whispered. "How lovely to see you again." He moved to speak; she pressed a finger to his lips.

"No, no, don't speak, father. For once in your life, just listen to me. First of all, yes, I know I am your daughter. Do not ask how. It doesn't matter. Second of all, no, I am not enchanted. I am not Morguase's slave. She is my sister, and I care for her more than I ever did for you. Do you understand yet? I am a sorceress, Uther. _Agnis" _

A flame danced tween her fingers, tempering the blade of the short sword she held poised to kill the king.

"For all my life I've lived in fear of you. I watched as you burned the innocent and celebrated their demise. My dreams were plagued with visions of the future. Seers dreams. Gaius knew of course. He filled me with drugs, kept me quiet. He was always wiser than you. I feared your wrath above all else. What you would do if I were discovered? So I hid. I hid and I hid, until one day I knew what I had to do. Fight back. The day came when I could no longer stand idly by while you condemned my people to die for simply being. My sister showed me how to use my gifts. And for over a year now I've worked against to plot your death. Why have we gone this far you may ask? Why have we set demons lose in the world, and bound our own souls to bring them here and yours as well?" She motioned to the black threads that bound the three on the hilltop together.

"Because, Uther, simply killing you would not be enough. No, you had to suffer first. You had to watch your people die because of your arrogance. You had to understand the pain we feel. Were Arthur here, I'd take control of your limbs, and have you bludgeon him to death, and rip his body till his blood soaked your skin. But Arthur's not here is he? No one to save your miserable hide this time. No false Emrys to protect a genocidal maniac. Do you at last understand, father? I hate you beyond all comprehension. And now you die."

_POP!_

At the hills far side a group of six people and two Oderan's materialized out of thin air. Uther's back was to them, and he could only hear their presence. Morgana shoved him aside, sending a flurry of spells over his shoulder.

Two men ran into view. One was Merlin the manservant, carrying a long staff. The other was a man the size of a small mountain, wielding a claymore, followed by an equally large wolf. Together the sister witches moved to engage them in battle. They traded spells and clashed weapons. Another blade pressed to Uther's neck. The feeling of it was familiar, tingling to the skin. He'd felt this weapon before. It was the greatest sword he'd ever held.

Arthur's head came to rest on his shoulder. A gauntlet dropped to the ground.

"Pick it up," the Prince whispered.

Slowly, hesitantly, Uther took up the glove. He rose from the ground, still holding his sword, and turned to face his son.

"Ar-arthur!" he breathed, more relieved than he'd ever been. "You're a-"

"Yes father, I'm alive," Arthur cut him off. His hands were shaking. Excalibur trembled. His face was flushed, and angry and sad, all at once. "I was never dead. Nor am I a Necromancer's puppet. My death was fabricated to draw you into battle. Morgana planned it all. Now," he raised Excalibur, spacing his feet into a fighting stance. "You're going to answer all of my questions or I'll kill you myself. What started the great purge? What really happened? I need to hear it from you. Go on, ANSWER ME!" he roared.

Uther, torn between the desire to hug his son and weep, and the desire to fall over with exhaustion, answered.

"Your mother and I… we were unable to conceive a child. We were both devastated. Nimueh, the high priestess, a member of the court, and a close friend to us, offered magic to help. The…the spell was cast, and you were conceived. But then your mother died giving birth. Nimueh lied to us, she…she murdered your mother."

"NO!" Arthur screamed. "The rules were explained to you! A life for a life! You knew this, but allowed the spell to be cast anyway. You killed thousands of people because you thought such a spell would just bring about the death of a random person. But it killed your wife! . So you committed genocide to soothe your own guilty conscious!"

Excalibur fell. Tears streamed down the Prince's face.

"Please…father. Please, tell me why. Justify it somehow…just…just tell me that my father didn't murder so many out of his love for my mother and I. Please…" He choked the rarest of sobs. Uther didn't know what to say. Every secret he'd kept was out in the open.

"My son," he began. "Everything I have ever done was for you and for the kingdom. I brought justice to those who wronged us. To those who deprived you of a life without your mother. Magic _is_ evil. You know this. I only ever sought to do what was right."

"…What is right?" Arthur seethed back. "All who do magic are evil because of a misconception of yours? …No, that's isn't what's right. Magic is just a tool, a weapon to be used. It's only as good or evil as the wielder. Merlin may be the worst servant I ever had, but he's the greatest friend a man could ask for. He is the epitome of what it means to be good. He loves where you and Morgana only hate. She's just like you. In seeking to end you, she became you…"

"You're wrong, Arthur." Uther told him. "Your head has been filled with lies. Whatever good your servant has done has been for naught. Magic corrupts all it touches. You've seen what magic can do."

"I'm not wrong. I've seen magic heal, call back the spirits of the dead. I've seen it do so many good things. You're the one who's wrong father…Do you know the hardest part of this for all of me, discovering all you did, what Morgana's doing now? It's the fact that Morgana's right. You do deserve to die. Every last bit of suffering that the people have felt for the last twenty years has been because of you. You're twisted, and evil, and yet I still love you…I cannot strike you down."

"DIE!"

Morgana spun away from her duel, and launched a spear of fire, not at Merlin, but at Arthur. Even when battling another, she was determined to bring about her father's suffering.

Merlin was too far away to do a thing. Excalibur was on the ground, and could not be used to deflect the attack. Uther didn't see it coming. It seemed Morgana would succeed in killing her brother.

A gargantuan shape moved across the sky. Two leathery wings beat the air.

A column of blinding white light shot down between Arthur and the spear, which found a target.

The Pilgrim, stood, weak and decrepit, with a smoldering hole in his chest.

"NO!"

Arthur leapt forward to catch the aged enchanter as he fell. He knelt, with the Pilgrim cradled in his strong arms. The twinkling blue eyes beamed up at him.

"Why, why did you do that!" Arthur demanded, the tears starting again.

"It is what I have always done," the old man murmured. "Protect you so that you would be king. My last enchantment has been cast...Morgana was always going to be the one to kill me. I knew it. Always. Arthur, I am so glad to see you just one last time before I go…my closest friend.

"No, we can stop this," Arthur blurted. "We can heal you…Why? Why for me? Who am I to you that you'd give your life so willingly for me?"

"My closest friend… Oh Arthur you royal prat. After all I've put up with for you, the imminent danger, the pathetic wages, the fruit pelting's, you think I would not die for you? Even now, do you not recognize me?"

The prince stared down at the man that was his mentor. The clues all fell into place. His heart was breaking.

Two pairs of blue eyes met, one young, the other old. Then, as suddenly as a storm on a rainy day, it came to him.

"Merlin…is…is that you?"

The Pilgrim smiled, and breathed his last breath.

**Revan Knight: There you go, the confrontation scene, well, at least part of it. There's going to be more drama between father and son next chapter. Hope you liked what was here though. **

**Sorry this took so long, this was just a really hard chapter to write, cause I've had this scene in my head since the beginning. Stories almost over, and the epic battle for good and evil will finally be fought. Happy reading. **


	23. Proclamation

For Arthur, the world had ended. The battles around him raged on, yet all his attention, all of his will was focused on the deceased friend in his arms.

Merlin was…would be, the Pilgrim.

The Pilgrim was dead…Merlin was dead.

Losing someone dear to you is never an easy. Arthur knew this. He'd had to deal with the loss of the mother he'd never known for his entire life. But this was something different entirely. This was Merlin, the best and truest friend he'd ever had. Not only that, but a friend who had traversed time itself to tell him of his destiny, to teach what needed to be taught.

And he done so knowing he was going to his doom. Throughout his words of wisdom he'd sprinkled the clues to his true identity. Yet no one had seen it until it was too late, and his fate had come to pass.

"Son," Uther whispered, aghast, unsure of the scene before him. "Who is this warlock?"

"A better man then you'll ever be," Arthur replied. He picked up Excalibur and rose to his feet.

At the base of hill Lancelot, Sir Leon, and Sir Godric beat their weapons against the crowd of demons that swarmed the soldiers on the field, the recently born dragoness weaving her way like a snake between their legs, snapping with razor sharp fangs and spitting bright orange sparks.

Merlin continued his battle with Morgana. A twirl of his staff sent a barrage of fire and light spinning off into the distance. A mad sort of amusement shone in the witch's eyes. A high cackle escaped her throat. She'd succeeded in killing her enemy, and she reveled in the pain that killing caused.

This wasn't his and Morgana's final battle. Even without a magical knowing Merlin could tell. Something else had to happen first.

Then, as Morgana came in for another attack, a great number of things happened in nearly the same instant.

To Merlin, the entirety of the world around him slowed down to scantly moving pictures frozen in midair. The young prophets eyes raced in all directions, taking in the most minute of details. The sweat running down a warriors dirt streaked cheek. Tiny remnants of spells crackling between a Druid's fingers. The racing of a thousand heartbeats.

He could see Arthur preparing to charge his half-sister in a blood crazed frenzy, determined to avenge the Pilgrim's inevitable demise.

_O Emrys in your crystal cave"_

The Weavers voice rang out across the silence. Her voice echoed like birdsong, haunting, yet full of warmth. Of truth. With it ghostly notes of music, harp song, ebbed into the night.

"_Deep in the Diamond of the day  
Will there ever be a singer  
Whose music will smooth away  
The furrow drawn by Adam's finger?  
Across the meadow and the wave  
Or a runner who'll outrun  
Man's long shadow driving on,  
Burst through the gates of history,  
And hang the apple on the tree?  
Will your sorcery ever show  
The sleeping bride shut in the bower,  
The day wreathed in its mound of snow,  
And Time locked in his tower?"_

As the melody continued, the only sound or a movement that registered in Merlin's mind, familiar feelings of power filled his soul to the brim. In the pouch at his belt the crystal of Niatid grew warm, spreading its heat to the crown with it in the pouch. Though his body was in battle and attack spells still lingers at his hands, the power pooled together. Truth was coming. The height of his destiny was approaching, when his true purpose would be found and fulfilled.

"_Artorious in your hallowed hall"_

Threads appeared from nothing. Thousands upon thousands of threads of all different colors protruded upward from every human chest. They shot upward into the sky, drawn towards two threads, one gold and one silver, which shone brightly above the rest. Arthur's thread, and Merlin's threads. Focal points of destiny. Where their threads pulled them, others would always follow, whether it be into battle or into the depths of history and legend. __

"Blade etched against the sky  
Poised to fell the blow,  
That seals the bastards fall.  
Take me up  
Cast me away,  
Your weapon shall enshrine  
And know a lady's kiss  
Sweeter than the vine.  
Guided and taught by the child of light  
Warriors brave and stalwart,  
Beat away the souls fright.  
Sister, boar lies lead amiss from true  
Bloodied womb stained a scarlet hue.  
Witches dark spin their spells  
Foe of the round table  
Lightning strikes and confounds  
Ending this fair fable."

The Weaver concluded her song. Amongst the demonic hordes her green attire and small body stood out. The final notes hung in midair. Rhythmically the threads continued to sway in place. Suddenly three new threads appeared, interconnected with one another, black and torn. Each end was bound to a separate soul, the souls of Morgana, Morgause, and Uther, slithering icily from each of their all but heartless chests. And it was then that Merlin knew what it was then must be done.

In summoning such creatures of evil to the world and binding them to mortal hosts, the witch sisters had bound up the demonic power in themselves as well as in Uther. Unless they willingly wended the enchantment, cast off the dark powers that surrounded them, they, along with Uther would have to die in order for Albion's nightmare to end, and for the furrow drawn forth by mankind's sins to be washed away just as prophecy said it must.

"_The time is now is now Emrys," _the Weaver said into his mind. The roar of the Agmar demon could be hear along the telepathic channel. Fear bubble in Merlin's heart, quickly cast aside by the pure resolve that now began to fill him. He was the prophet. He knew what he must do.

"_The people of these lands need their Once and Future king , but first he must be made known to them. Proclaim him, prophet, so that his name and deeds may be told of forever in legend."_

Resolve imploded through Merlin's pores. Light filled his eyes, overshadowing his irises, until two orbs of glittering gold hung like miniature suns in his eye sockets.

Weaves of magic swirled around him.

Thunder clapped, lightning branched across the clouded sky.

Whipping away from his battle, Merlin swung the Pilgrim's staff high above his head.

Tumultuous winds gathered, before splitting off in all directions.

Morgana and Morgause were lifted off the ground and flung off towards the edges of the battlefield. The demonic hordes were forced away from the men by a dome of solid air. Futile roars escaped their devilish maws, fangs dripped with bloodied saliva. The ground began to quake beneath their feet. A great crack formed around the battlefield, quaking the earth as it ran its way around the dome of air.

Merlin knelt down on one knee, leaning on the staff for support.

This power had always dwelt within him. Throughout his life he'd only seen glimpses of his true potential, killing a griffin, wielding the power of a Dragonlord. But now was the time for him to show the true might of the king's prophet. For this power was not his, but Arthur's, to use. From his first spell to his last enchantment, Merlin's powers existed to make Arthur king, and bring about Camelot's golden age.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted, spinning around to face him. "What are you doing? I almost had her!"

"Now isn't the time, sire," the manservant replied, eyes on the ground in concentration. "The time for justice to be served will come, but only after you are made king. Are you ready?"

Arthur blinked in surprise.

"Now?" he shot a begrudging glance at his father.

"His kingship means nothing next to yours Arthur. While he was ruler of one of the five, you shall be king of all Britain." Looking up, he turned to Uther, an expression anger, pity, and sadness masking his face. "The time will come soon that you may redeem yourself in your sons eyes, Uther Pendragon, at least in some way. Though only if you are willing."

"What are you talking about, warlock?" Uther snarled. "You infiltrate my house, turn my only son against me, and then speak of my redemption? What I have seen here today only proves I am right! That you and your kind are a scourge upon this earth!"

"Be silent!" Arthur all but shrieked. Calmly, Merlin rose a hand to still him.

"It is alright, Arthur. Uther, surely you have seen by now that you are bound up with these demons? Morgana has made it so that in order for them to stopped, for them to go away forever, you have to die. Ponder this fact as your son is crowned in stars before you. Perhaps you are not entirely lost to the hatred that has consumed your daughter's heart. Be ready, Arthur."

Indeed, Uther did understand. But what the situation called for, he was unsure he would be able to do.

Slowly, with what appeared to be a tremendous amount of effort, Merlin began to raise the staff. The wood was hot on his skin, his eyes shone only brighter as the magnitude of telekinetic spread into the cracks in the ground. With a great heave he straightened his body completely. Shaking quaked over the soldiers, many of whom fell to their feet.

The tiniest sparkle of light hung about the cracks as the landscape, men, Badon Hill and all, rose into the air as a floating platform of rock.

Gasps and screams of terror echoed across the platform. How was this happening? What sorcery was this? All eyes turned to the shining man atop the hill, who, arms raised high above his head, proclaimed in a booming voice that all could hear.

"**People of the five kingdoms, hear my words! I am Merlin, son of Balinor, last of the Dragonlords! Emrys, the prophet foretold by the Druids! You were brought here to end the life of Uther Pendragon so that you and your families may live without fear, but now, a threat greater than any man can imagine has been unleashed upon our lands! **

**What brought these creatures here is magic, a force that many of you have come to fear and hate because of Camelot's king. Uther Pendragon's actions during the Great purge those many years ago have skewed your perception of what magic is. Truly I tell you, magic is but a tool, a sword to be wielded by the hands of man. It is the man, not the magic, that determines good or evil.**

**Only if we stand together, Druid, solider, all of us, will we see the dawn of a new day! But for us to stand together and join our sword is not enough! Among us stand a man who many of you would see as a boy, a man whose fate it is to lead us into a golden age as one kingdom, united. He is Arthur Pendragon, a warrior pure of heart and true of mind. In his hand he wield a blade blessed in dragons fire, which in his hands is driven by the will of the gods themselves.**

**I have seen a vision of the future, and let it be known that all those who ride with him today shall have for themselves a place amongst legend. For even when all the kingdoms of the earth have crumbles away, and the land has been taken by the see, his name will live on in glory! He is the king of kings, a king for once and always, and even in death his star shall shine for all to see!**

**So throw in your sword with his, and on this day you will see with your own eyes that justice can be done, that the light triumphs over the darkness, and above all that in each of us dwells a magic more powerful than anything demons can comprehend, nor even the witches can understand. Love dwells in your hearts, for your families, for your countries, let it be your weapon!**

With all eyes glued to him, Merlin reached into his robes and withdrew the crown crafted by Thomas the blacksmith, and turned to Arthur. As if rehearsed, the prince sank to his knees.

Gazing upward at the heavens, Merlin placed the crown atop his matted blonde mane.

Air caught in each of their throats. It was for this moment that both of them had lived. So that the kingdoms would be united, and a king be crowned.

A great light suddenly erupted in the sky. A star, scarlet and gold screamed across the clouds like a dragon midflight.

"**Behold, for his star shines brightly even now!" **Merlin roared, waving his arm in a wide sweeping movement.

"**Hail Arthur, high king of all Albion! The Once and future king!" **

As one the crowds of soldiers fell to their knees in awe. The gods had sent them two messengers that day. And little did any of them know, that in all their days they would witness nothing greater than this.

Arthur stood, Excalibur raised high.

"FOR LOVE AND GLORY!" he bellowed. The crowds roared in response, their weapons rising with his.

Off to the side Uther watched this with sad and proud eyes. So his son would indeed be a great king. At the words of a supposed prophet, the people were already his to command. He looked down at his chest, seeing the beginnings of the black thread that protruded from it. Even now he thought his past actions to be righteous, that in bringing about the great purge he had done what was right. But those were the actions that had earned the hatred of his beloved son.

Uther knew, there was only one way to earn back his sons love even in part. To help bring this hell to an end.

Shakily, the powerless king picked up his fallen sword, and drove it into his own chest. The black thread was severed. Like a shadow it flickered out of existence.

Perhaps now the battle could be won. Perhaps peace could be restored.


	24. The Weaver's sacrifice

Atop the floating platform Albion's armies gathered together into a single oversized fighting force. The armored ranks circled their way around the base of Badon Hill, the Pendragon banner flapping valiantly above them.

Demons swarmed the crater marking the platforms point of origins, dancing around the edges like a tribe of barbarians. Blood dribbled steadily from mouths that had once belonged to mortal men. Thunder clapped above, shaking the shadowy serpentine clouds splashed across the canvass of the sky. The winds swirled violently across the plains, a magically induced tempest that hindered the enemies' movements. Rain would follow soon enough. Hopefully it would wash the battlefield of blood, wiping it clean for the next conflict.

Men gripped their weapons uneasily, their fighting spirits lifted only by the presence of the King and his prophet who sat atop brilliant white stallions at the hills summit, flanked on either side by a group of strong shouldered knights. In their eyes the young Pendragon was a king who would surely find his place in legend just as the prophet had said. He held in his hand a holy weapon forged of Dragon's fire and a servants loyalty. He stood ready to charge at deaths doorstep, to put his own life on the line so that Albion's people would live free of tyranny. Who among men was more worthy to lead them against the forces of Hell? No one.

The Prophet however, was seen as something far different. Like the king he shone like a beacon atop the hill. But his words and actions were not that of a leader, but those of something more than night. He spoke the word of the Gods themselves. Truth. Divine law, divine proclamation flowed through his veins as blood. While the king would guide their swords, the Prophet would guide the king.

Twas he who summoned the storm against the blight, he who lifted Badon above the earth. The Prophet wielded power beyond all imagining, and in his wake the road to a golden age a peace would be paved.

Merlin glanced down at the bodies of Uther and the Pilgrim. Two men whose lives were claimed by Morgana's madness.

He was the Pilgrim. Or at least, he one day would be. When he thought about it now, it made so much sense. How had he not seen it?

The Pilgrim had known this day was coming; he must have, for millennia. Once before he had experienced this day's events, not as a wise old warlock, but as a big eared young man to whom the future was an endless mystery woven into the fabric of life.

"I'm sorry about your father, Arthur…"

"So am I," Arthur whispered back. He fingered his mounts reins absently, refusing to look at the corpses. "He did the right thing in the end, I suppose. It hardly matters…one act of righteousness cannot absolve him of all he's done." The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

"No," Merlin agreed. "But he wasn't all bad. Part of him was always good, even before the end."

"And what part was that?" Arthur snapped quietly, shifting in the saddle to face look him in the eye.

"The part of him that loved you and Morgana. He loved you Arthur, more than anything in the world. That's why he ended his own life, because he couldn't bear to live thinking you hated him."

"He deserves all the hatred in the world…yet somehow I still love him, much as I don't want to." Merlin gripped his shoulder, giving a light squeeze.

"He was your father. You can't help but love him. Despite what he did, maybe…maybe one day you can learn to forgive him."

In all honesty Arthur couldn't see that day coming anytime soon. A lie, a minor social transgression, those were easy to forgive. Unchecked genocide however was not.

"Perhaps one day," the high King conceded. The two fell silent, turning to gaze at the field of battle far below them.

Among the hordes the Agmar demon was clearly visible. Nearly twelve feet tall with horns the length of spears, claws like blades and scales like mail, it was a truly horrific sight to behold. It's eyes burned ruby red, the intent to destroy evident in their depths. The Weaver would give her lie to defeat it. That the Pilgrim had told him. The tiny Druid leader had yet to approach either Artorius or Emrys. Perhaps she believed they would try to stop her sacrifice, which they surely would. So she stayed away, walking amongst her people, preparing to fight.

"This is it isn't it?" Arthur asked quietly. "The battle this has all been leading to."

"Yes," said Merlin. "You'll have to lead the charge. You, Lancelot, Leon, Godric, Verown, you and your knights have to cleave your way through them. Open a path for the other men to take. Leave the big fellow to the Weaver. She's powerful enough to handle herself."

"Aren't you coming with me?"

The question came out higher pitched than he'd intended. Worry crawled its way into the baby blue orbs. Though hesitant to admit it aloud, Arthur did not want face the battle without Merlin by his side.

"Of course I am," Merlin replied. "At first at least. I have to deal with Morgana though… Our fight may take up a lot of space, and I don't want anyone to get hurt in the crossfire. So I'm thinking of taking the fight somewhere out of the way. Do you think you can handle Morgause? You won't be alone of course. Verown can help with his magic, and Lancelot and his dragon can help as well. But you've got the best chance against her with Excalibur." Arthur nodded.

"We'll handle her. Do what you have to against Morgana, Merlin. She won't show you mercy. Is she worthy of being shown mercy?"

Merlin sighed. Honestly, he wasn't sure who deserved mercy or not. He was a prophet, not a god. Could he rightfully judge another person based on their actions? Could offers of forgiveness avert fate? More than anything he wished to spare her life. She was his friend, he loved her in more than one way, both in friendship and unexplored infatuation. But he knew for a fact, courtesy of the crystal caves strange sense of partial omniscience, that Morgana would not live to see another day. He would do battle with her, and he would have to kill her as she had killed the Pilgrim. They were to be each other's doom.

"Whether she's worthy or not, I cannot say Arthur. But I have to offer it. Otherwise I'm no better than her. You have to give your enemies a chance to see what's right, or you're the same as them."

King Arthur smiled weakly.

"Already spouting words of wisdom I see. You really are the Pilgrim, though you don't look _that_ old. Speaking of which, you don't age very well Merlin. To put it bluntly, you like a reanimated corpse that likes to play the lyre wearing the most unnerving smile I've ever seen. Can I suggest herbal skin therapy? Surely Gaius must know of something that can help."

Merlin cracked a grin. With a wave of his staff the waves of air supporting the platform slowly began to recede.

"Yes, well. I'm still the one with magical powers. Come on then. Let's finish this."

"Right," he looked to the knights beside them. "Are you lot ready?"

"Ready sire!" Leon and Godric cried in unison. Lancelot gave a simple yes, Verown a humble nod.

Arthur lifted Excalibur high above his head, and bellowed in a loud clear voice.

"To arms my brother, to arms! The time has come, to arms!"

The soldiers roared in response, brandishing their weapons in wild gestures above their heads. Merlin closed his eyes in deep concentration. With careful, precise movements, he moved his staff in a wide mechanical arch around his body. As it descended towards the ground the platform began to tip in one direction. It would become a ramp leading to the battlefield. Though they lacked any deep intelligence, the demons began to take notice of this. They scrambled away from the crater to avoid being crushed.

At the battlefields distant edge the witch sisters dusted off their skirts. They'd had a rather rough landing. Morgana's hair was matted with sweat and dirt, sticking damply to her ivory cheeks. Morgause examined Nimueh's staff for damage, finding to her satisfaction that it had only been nicked at the base. Her combat magic's would be entirely unaffected. The sisters exchanged a glance, before launching themselves forward into the demonic hordes. Threaded black malice trailed behind them, the links that bound their unholy army to the earth.

Then, Excalibur shining with a heavenly light, Arthur urged his mount forward, Merlin and the knights charging with him.

Once again Merlin found his perception of time slowed to a near standstill. The key points of the battle flashed in his vision. Despite the gargantuan mass of bodies both living and dead that cluttered the plain he could see Morgana and Morgause clearly, standing side by side, launching bolt after bolt of magical energy at the oncoming forces. They were the priority targets. When they fell, so would their armies. The Agmar demon reared viciously. It's talons glinted in the dusk.

"_Farewell Emrys, my time has come." _Merlin heard the Weaver whisper into his mind. Her childlike voice sounded so innocent from one that held so much power. So, now was when she would do battle with the hordes king. The Weaver was about to die. Had he not known for a fact that this was true he would have called out for her to stop. But there were other matters for him to deal with, and the Druid leader knew as well as he did, even without the powers of the prophet, that destiny could not be averted. No matter how direly they wished it could be.

Time returned to normal speed, and the Weaver moved forward towards her foe.

Merlin turned his head back to the battle. The stallion's lean muscled body rippled rhythmically beneath him. They would be upon the enemy in mere seconds, and Merlin realized that he would have to rid himself of his mount. Not that he had anything against horses, he loved them in fact, but he was not trained in any kind of mounted combat, whether it be with a sword or magic. Breathing heavily he twirled the staff once and brought it through the air in a great slashing motion.

Pure white light erupted from the wooden tip, cleaving through the demonic horde like a tempered blade through paper. Repeatedly he slashed the staff through the air, sending a barrage of white streaks into the enemy flanks.

Taking one last deep breath, he gathered his concentration. He'd yet to truly test the limits of his new powers. There was no better time to experiment than the present.

Slamming his hands downward, Merlin shot a burst of air beneath him, launching his form into the sky like a ragdoll. For a moment he flailed wildly in midair, desperately clawing at anything to stop the fall. But then he found his focus, and his power began to go to work. Tendrils of air suspended him in the sky above the battlefield. Each individual weave was a separate extension of his body, like a hundred windswept tentacles that held him their like a marionette on strings. His eyes narrowed on Morgana. His fight with her would have to take place elsewhere. Somewhere out of the way.

First however, he would help the people of Albion in their own battle. Until the witches fell, the demons would simply get up after being killed, they could not be truly slain. The soldiers had reached the enemy and hacked at the wall of red demon hide. Progress was slow, they would never defeat them on their own.

But Merlin could remedy that.

Staff raised high, the incantation boomed from his lips. Blue yes became gold.

"_Agnis Malificarum!"_

Clouds were shredded to feathery wisps as orbs of silver fire rained down from the heavens. The demons shrieked as holy flames engulfed their flesh. The human armies shifted, enclosing the enemy. Now he could strike against Morgana.

Throwing caution aside, Merlin shot himself over the plain, directly at Morgana.

His body hit hers in a flurry of limbs and robes. Securing his arms around her waist, he spun them around. And with a loud popping noise, they were gone.

Green energy crackled around the Weavers tiny frame. Vines crept from the earth and encased her legs. The forest was her element, and all plant life granted her some form of power. She had to get it right. Only if the demon struck her properly, and she it, would it truly be defeated. Her staff struck at the demons fore claws.

With a thud a talon slammed into her stomach. She smiled. Violet sparkles began to drape her arms, spreading across her skin to envelope the Agmar demon.

It screamed in pain, trying to pull away. But it's effort was in vain. A rift in time and space opened up. the abyss appeared briefly through a window in reality. And the pair was pulled into it, body and soul. The Weaver was dead. Her sacrifice would not be in vain. Artorious and Emrys would be sure of that.

**I want to apologize for a couple of things. First and foremost the lateness of this chapter, and second of all for the weird updates yesterday. You see, I'm an idiot and when I was trying to clear out my document manager on this site, I was actually on the story page and deleted most of the story. I've managed to restore most of it, though I still have to fix some formatting. But I still cant find chapter 22 anyway, I'm stupid and didn't make a backup. So, if anyway somehow has a copy of the chapter with Aslan in it, please send it to me. Otherwise I'll be rewriting it so that my story won't have holes in in. I also have to fix some chapter names, but that can wait. Next chapter we get the fights between Morgana and Merlin, Arthur and Morgause. The fated duels. And just so were clear, Merlin just apparated away to have their fight elsewhere. Happy reading. **


	25. King Arthur's First Victory

From across the battlefield Arthur had seen the Weaver fall, and the Agmar demon with her. The window that linked the mortal world and the infernal plane that was the abyss hung open in space for a brief moment, before flickering out of existence. The king felt his jaw drop open in dumfounded shock.

It had happened so very quickly, when the fighting had only just begun.

Yes, Merlin had told him that it was coming. It had been necessary in order for the defeat of their enemies . A life had to be given in exchange.

But despite the foreknowledge of her demise, Arthur couldn't help but feel a pang of grief at the tiny druid's death. However his grief was to be short lived, for at that same moment a particularly monstrous demon, who had chosen a giant of a man to be his host, came rushing at him from the left, battle-axe raised.

Shifting in the saddle Arthur knocked the blow aside with a quick movement of the wrist. The demon staggered backward several steps. It readied it's axe for another blow, only to be ran through gut to throat by Excalibur. Black-red blood spurted in a directions, staining the fabric of the king's breeches and the once immaculate white coat of his horse.

The stallion reared backward. It's hooves kicked wildly at the air, beheading several smaller demons who had the misfortune of being in range.

"There, there boy," Arthur soothed, running a calming hand in small circles along the horses neck. "S'lright". It's amber eyes permeated fear even as it's hooves lowered to the ground.

Arthur snapped the reins, propelling himself into the thick of the fight. Wildly he slashed at the hordes that quickly came to surround him on all sides, alternating between right, left, forward and backward attacks.

"Doing alright there mate?"

He turned to see Lancelot cleave his way through to his side on foot, having left his horse in favor of non-mounted combat. Apalala was hot on his heels. Smoke trailed from her open jaws and demonic blood glistened on her scales. For having been born only hours ago, the dragonling had proved herself a more than worthy combatant. She was a dragon after all, and the worlds weakest dragon was still a force to be reckoned with.

"Alright!" Arthur called back, beheading another demon and shoving it's corpse aside. "You two?"

"Okay for the most part," Lancelot replied, smiling weakly. The smile didn't last. "Verown isn't though. Did you see the Weaver go down? Because he must've." Raising a gauntlet clad finger he pointed into the ever shifting throng of battle.

A hundred feet away where there was a patch of ground free of combatants Verown stood with his eyes to the ground, claymore hefted over his shoulder. Tears tumbled down his cheeks. They soaked his beard, adding moisture to the sweat and grime that already covered his body. The wolf familiar stood loyally to the side. Waiting. At his feet lay a robed corpse. The body of his brother. One of the hundred or so sorcerers who had joined Morgause's cause.

Immediately Arthur understood.

The Weaver had been more than just a leader to him. She was his teacher, his mother figure. For as long as he'd lived he had followed in her footsteps and learned her ways. Every spell he knew she had taught him.

It was the Weaver who had told him of the prophecies of Emrys and Artorius, and it was the Weaver who had instilled in him an unshakable faith.

All he was, he owed to her.

And then there was his brother. His own flesh and blood, who he had been force to take down for the sake of what was right.

Suddenly, Verown's head rose to gaze into the distance. Eyes finding their target, he lifted his weapon and shouted to the sky.

"PREPARE TO DIE SHE-DEVIL!"

Fire shot up the claymore's hilt. It wove itself up the blade, enwreathing it in swirling orange flames. Screaming various incantations he brought the weapon down into the ground at his feet, splitting it.

A fiery column erupted forth from the ground. For a moment it hung silently in midair, poised like a serpent before it's caster, before lunging straight at the demonic hordes.

Ear splitting shrieks rang into the night. Smells of burning flesh stung at flaring nostrils, and Verown charge down his newly formed path, wolf hot behind him, towards the witch who had brought on this madness.

"Come, Artorius!" he shouted back at them. "Let us be rid of her once and for all!"

Arthur and Lancelot exchanged a look.

"Are you in?" Arthur asked.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Ready, Apalala?"

The dragoness had gone quite still for a moment. Her eyes were closed, limbs rigid and stiff, her form firmly in place. Folds of scale-less skin at her eyes bunch with internal concentration. Her mind was working hard.

This apparent loss of interest forced Lancelot to beat away several attacking demons who had mistaken the motionless reptile for easy prey.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she replied breaking free of her trance. "I was simply calling for help. We'll need it. Let's go!"

She darted after Verown, leaving two very confused warriors behind. Well, briefly confused warriors.

"She's calling the dragon," Arthur muttered, turning his horse towards the path. "She's calling Kilgharrah to help us fight."

"Couldn't she have told us that?" Lancelot asked, beginning to run, knocking aside several more demons in the process. Arthur snapped his reins. The horse broke into a gallop.

"Probably. No matter though. Let's just hope he gets here soon. Morgause has to go down fast. Or this will never end."

Verown's path turned out to be dead on. When they emerged from the fiery trail they found themselves at the battlefield's borders, edged with thick stand of oak and hickory. Morgause was there, standing with her back to the trunks launching a barrage of multicolored bursts from the tip of Nimueh's staff. The hordes were thin here, with only demonic stragglers that strayed away from the main bulk.

A group of soldiers stood off to her right, huddled within a circle of shields that protected them from both the crazed sorceress, and the hordes that lay less than a stone's throw away. Magic bolts dissipated against the metal of their shields, shaking and heating them with each hit.

"Ah, there you are," Morgause drawled upon seeing her next opponents approach. "King Arthur and his subjects. A peasant who believes himself a knight, and a druid who put his hope in the wrong place." She lowered the staff. "It's a pity she died you know. She was my teacher's teacher. Her power was great indeed. The two of you could have joined with us. Perhaps then all this blood shed would not have been necessary."

"Be silent she-devil" Verown growled, wolf following suit. "Blood has only been shed today because you and your sister wished it so. Now prepare to die." He took a fighting stance and the beginnings of a spell formed on his lips.

"Morgana and I fight for justice. Nothing more, nothing less." Her tone was strong, defiant.

"Justice!" Arthur spat, stepping forward. He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the carnage that surrounded them. "This is justice! How can you call it justice to take the lives of the innocent just to kill a single man? Yes my father's actions were heinous, and perhaps he deserved to be executed. But why all of this! This is not justice, it's murder. No, justice is not what you sought. You sought only power. To secure for yourself a position of prestige and power. To establish those with magic as the dominant race. You filled Morgana's mind with your lies, and look what it has wrought upon all of Albion! All of it, sorcerers included!"

Apalala spat sparks at the witch, igniting her robe's hem. She tapped Nimueh's staff once. Extinguishing the flames.

"What if this _is _what I see as justice, Arthur? Since before the great purge my people have always been under the tutelage of yours. Yes, in the olden days we were not slaughtered for our abilities, rather enslaved. Of course some of us were part of the nobility, but we were never the rulers. Nimueh once served in your father's court, did you know that? The court enchantress. To whom the ruling king would turn for all things magical. But never did the court enchanter ever wield the power they truly deserved. No sorcerer has." A crystalline violet orb appeared in her hands. A mass of magical energy.

"Magic allows us to bend the laws of nature to our will. We can bend the elements, throw fire and raise the tides. Mold the minds of our enemies to our own devices. Foretell the future, determine destinies. These are the powers we are born with, and we are dubbed sorcerers, magicians, people either to be used for their power or snuffed out before they can turn on their oppressors. We're not merely magicians, your majesty. We are gods taking human form. These 'innocents' you speak of are but insects in my eyes. Though Uther died what could be called a heroic death to end my plans, his death still serves the same purpose whether it sates my appetite for vengeance.

"He was made an example of. Today I have shown Albion's people that those who defy my will, the will of those greater than they, and those who impose their own will upon us will be destroyed. Completely and utterly. See, Arthur? What I do is justice. I am simply securing my people's divinely begotten right to rule. Your crown reads 'Arthur the bear: For once and always', but whatever semblance of power the false Emrys has attained for you will soon become mine. For _I _am the true Emrys, who will lead those with magic to their rightful place in the world."

"I won't die," said Arthur. "Not today at least. You know the prophecies, and believe a good deal of them. You believe that Mordred is the one meant to end me. That's why you went through all the trouble of orchestrating his conception. You wanted my bastard son to use as a tool. But Mordred isn't here, is he? Were you not willing to risk him on the battlefield? No matter. Let's end this. Once and for all."

"_Vita Avadas Decerde!" _

A jet of green energy shot directly at Arthur, bathing them all in it's ethereal light.

Arthur lifted Excalibur, and with all the strength he could muster he swung at the oncoming attack.

The two forces made contact. Hissing and crackling exploded from the point they met. Trails of energy sparked upward, filling the sky with bolts of false lightning.

And then, an entire second later, Arthur's swing sent the spell rocketing back at its caster.

Morgause leapt aside. The spell hit a tree instead, leaving a smoldering hole in the trunk.

Lancelot, Verown and their Oberan fanned out, enclosing Morgause in a circle between Arthur and themselves.

The king and the sorceress charged together, weapons clanging together in a flurry of sparks and woodchips. Nimueh's staff was magical after all, and would hold together even if pummeled by a thousand enchanted blades. Arthur shoved forward with his shoulder, dealing a quick blow from the right. Morgause parried, and lowered herself to the ground, sweeping with her staff.

Jumping over the staff Arthur brought Excalibur down for another attack, nicking his opponents shoulder. Scarlet blood trickled from the wound.

Grimacing with the pain, Morgause backed away. She turned her head slowly, making sure not to get too close to any of the hostiles surrounding her.

Lancelot lunged in with a stabbing motion. Morgause twirled to the side, batting his blade away.

"_Concusian Kierade!" _Verown roared. He lifted the claymore high above his head, green flaring around it.

"_Glathin!" _A bubble shield bloomed into life. The blade came crashing into it, sending a shockwave out in all directions, knocking all but Morgause, who stood at the center of the circle, to the ground.

She gulped a tired breath, composure slumping.

At once Arthur leapt back up.

"_Aeries Aran!" _A tumultuous gust blew through the tiny clearing, knocking the king back to the ground.

"This is hardly a fair fight you know," Morgause whispered, remnants of wind still whirled about her fingertips. "Three men, one with a magic sword, another warlock, a wolf, and a dragon against a single woman? Perhaps the odds should be evened, eh? _Aeris Aran Marviezen!" _

Once again the wind picked up, this time swirling around the sorceress' small frame. Her eyes burned with gold, frozen straight ahead, full of concentration. Slowly she was lifted from the grassy turf, and rose into the sky like lark preparing to sing its morning song.

She was flying just as Merlin had done.

The sorceress peered down at her opponents. She sneered, lifting her staff.

"Incoming!" Lancelot called.

Showers of multicolored magical bolts rained from the sky like a storm of arrows. Their intended targets scrambled to move out of the way. But the attacks were clustered too closely together, and there was simply no way they'd avoid all of them.

Another great wind blew, but this was not the work of a spell. A set of gargantuan claws set down inches from Arthur's right foot, and what appeared to be a dome of rust colored leather surrounded he and his friends. Morgause's attacks thudded dully against Kilgharrah's great wings.

"We meet again young Pendragon," the Great dragon chuckled, slipping his head into the dome. He looked at each of them for a moment, eyes resting particularly long on Apalala. After all, she was the first of his kind to be born in over twenty years. He nodded to Lancelot in silent thanks for his help in protecting her, before turning back to Arthur.

"It seems to me you and Merlin never fail to get yourselves into trouble. Now then, come. You will destroy this witch once and for all, and I will help you."

Before Arthur could speak Kilgharrah's tail fastened around his waist, and lifted him to the dragon's scaly back. The winged dome unfurled, and with a single stroke the ancient beast propelled them into the air.

And so the chase began.

With each wing beat Arthur felt his heart jump. His legs were wrapped tightly as he could muster around Kilgharrah's neck. Were he to fall, he would find himself drowned among the hordes.

Morgause was a fast flyer; fast enough to stay just out of range of the dragons fire breath, though her limbs shook as she moved. Her entire form vibrated, as if the magic that held her there was trying to fling her away.

In midair she turned, lobbing spell after spell at her pursuers. Most of these bounced harmlessly off Kilgharrah's scales, or simply missed entirely.

"Finish her, young Pendragon," Kilgharrah told him. The great dragon lowered his neck, and flung the king forward.

For a split second Arthur flailed wildly in the air. But then he realized what the action was intended to do. Set him up for the final blow.

He raised Excalibur, batting away Morgause's final flurry of spells, and ran her through with the holy blade.

The web of black threads that encased her soul dispersed into nothingness.

Off in the distance lightning struck, splitting the sky in half. Half of the horizon was bright as sunrise, the other shrouded in dark clouds.

It was all up to Merlin now. Morgana would have to die, and anyone who knew him knew that taking a life was something he would never do lightly.

How could he kill someone he'd once called friend?

**LINEBREAK**


	26. Fated Duel

_POP!_

Merlin and Morgana appeared from nowhere. For a moment they hung suspended in midair, limbs twisting in a crazed struggle for dominance, before falling straight down, landing on the surface of an ancient stone altar. They broke apart, rolling in opposite directions. Merlin groaned, seared his right arm. Blood soaked his sleeve, trickling steadily from a gaping wound in his forearm.

Somehow, a chunk of flesh was missing. There were no cuts to indicate the blow of a sword or knife. It was just gone.

'_I left part of me behind,' _Merlin thought hazily. _'If I'm not careful, travelling like this could kill me.' _

He opened his eyes, blinking away the pain that seared at his arm. He lay, half sitting, half stooping over his wound, against the stone altar of the Gods. They were at the Isle of the blessed. This was where he'd battled Nimueh for Gaius' life so long ago. It was here that the faithful of the old religion flocked to worship. This was holy ground, where he'd come to do battle.

Dark clouds could be seen swirling ominously above the temple walls that enclosed the altar's courtyard.

"So you've brought us here to have our duel?"

Merlin leapt to his feet, spinning round to see Morgana pacing back and forth along the far wall. Her hair was a tangled mess of sweat and blood, both human and demonic. Long tears were ripped in her skirt, her entire look disheveled. But she had lost none of her menacing presence. Black threads still spun about her graceful curves. She was a demoness it seemed, taking human form.

"Rather appropriate don't you think, that the false Emrys should be killed in such a hallowed place by the people's true savior?"

"Please Morgana," Merlin pleaded almost wearily. "It…it doesn't have to be this way."

"Doesn't it though?" A quiet laugh escaped her lips. "You've made it clear that you believe the Weaver's prophecies, you believe yourself to be a prophet. Prophecy calls me 'the Black Dragoness', the darkness to Emry's light, the hatred to his love. Prophecy foretells that we're meant to kill one another. Have you lost faith in the prophecies, now of all times? Come along then. Finish me off once and for all. I'll enjoy seeing you try at least."

He lifted the Pilgrim's staff to the ready position, albeit reluctantly.

Their eyes locked. Cyan blue, the color of good and truth met bottle green, a poisonous hue that spoke only of malice and deception. Somewhere behind those green orbs, Merlin knew, lay the Old Morgana. Somewhere deep inside the woman who was once his friend still existed. The woman for whom he'd cared for deeply, and had once hoped would return his vain infatuation. He'd loved her in a way. She was the only other person who'd shared his need to hide his magical nature. She could've helped him. But he didn't let her.

Shakily, Merlin lowered the staff. He couldn't bring himself to do it.

"We don't have to fight!... Please Morgana. Can't we just talk about this? We…We don't have to fight." His voice cracked, trailing off.

Morgana's brows arched quizzically. Her lips curved amusedly.

"Very well then, talk. Nothing you can say will change anything. Nevertheless, my interest is piqued. Talk."

Merlin began. He had no idea what he would say, what arguments he would make, nothing was rehearsed. Each word was as new to him as it was to Morgana. All he could do was pour out his heart, and hope for the best.

"Why does it have to be this way Morgana? Why must we kill one another, destiny or not? I believe that destiny is what we choose to do, not what we're going to do. I chose to protect Arthur so that he'd become king. I could've walked away, gotten on with my life, but I chose differently. You killed the Pilgrim…me, or what I'll become. But now you can change your mind, become something different. You have the power to end all of this right now. Call off the demons, help up to rebuild what's been destroyed. Please Morgana, don't make these choices. Don't let your hatred consume you completely. Please!"

A long silence passed. When Morgana replied she sounded weary, and thoroughly skeptical.

"The old bearded man, the Pilgrim you called him, gave me the same speech. That destiny is tied up in what we choose to be. That I've made all the wrong choices. But tell me Merlin, haven't you chosen this destiny for me as well? This destiny for us? Since you became Arthur's servant you've made questionable choices of your own. Choices that adhered perfectly to prophecy. You chose not to tell me of your magic, even when I was desperate for any sort of help I could get. Do you know how often I contemplated killing myself, ending the endless string of nightmares that my life had become? You had to have seen my struggling, you and Gaius both. Yet you did nothing. You stood by while I suffered. What have you to say of _those _choices Merlin?"

"I…I can only say I'm sorry so many times," tears began to well in his eyes, driven down his cheeks by the overpowering guilt that branded his soul. "I wanted to tell you Morgana. I really, really did. I know what you went through with your magic. The struggle for control, the fear of how the ones you loved would react to the truth, I went through it all. So many times I tried to tell you but…"

"You did not," she finished icily.

"But I wanted to! But I didn't because I wanted to prevent exactly this! Kilgharahh, the great dragon, always told me not to trust you, that you and Mordred would be united in evil, and that you were my opposite, and that it'd be better for both of us for me to kill you before you could cause any trouble…I wanted to prove him wrong. Telling you the truth would only bring you closer to it all…I just wanted to protect you Morgana. That's all I ever really wanted. To protect the people I love."

Another pause.

Morgana turned and walked several paces to the side. She gazed off into the sky, fiddling absently with her skirt.

"'_The darkness to his light, the hatred to his love'. _That is what prophecy foretells of Emrys and his unmaker the black dragoness. The counter darkness to the child of the light. So you've tried to avert destiny and failed. Here I am, your greatest of enemies, placed here by your actions as well as mine. Prophecy is coming true. So perhaps you are Emrys, and it is the prophecy itself that is false. Perhaps they foretell the coming of not our messiah, but of a false prophet come to spout false wisdom. Another of your choices perplexes me, Merlin. The dragon told you of Arthur's fate to be Camelot's greatest king, and of your fate to bring Arthur's about.

Tell me, why did you follow the dragon's words? Why did you choose to protect Arthur? With power such as yours you could be king not only of Albion but of the entire world. It would be a simple feat to reach out with your mighty hand and wipe all who would oppose you from the earth. With power such as yours you are not a warlock but a god! Why then have you not claimed what is yours by right? Why do blubber about on the ground like a servant at his masters feet rather than seize kingship for yourself?"

"'Right'?" Merlin breathed disbelievingly. "Is that what you truly believe? That our magic sets us above other people, that it makes us gods? Before you claimed to be fighting against Uther's persecution, for our peoples right to live."

"They are the same," she snapped, turning back to face him. "Uther saw what ours powers could do, so he struck at us before we could claim what is ours. Power. Arthur is supposedly a king who will lead all men to greatness and glory. Justice and peace. But can my brother create fire in his hands? Can he shake the ground with but a step of his foot? No. Magic is power, Merlin. Surely you know that."

"Has Morgause poisoned your mind so deeply? Magic is a tool not a right! Arthur's rule will bring goodness to all people, magical or not. I was given this power to serve not to be served. It's gods will that Arthur will lead us to a golden age. That's what I'm here to help bring about, peace. Not my own place of power."

"Then you are a fool. And I am right. If it is your fate to bring about this 'golden age' then it is also your fate to dispose of those who would oppose it namely me." Suddenly one of the black threads that framed her form snapped and faded into the ether. Arthur had won. Morgause was dead. For a moment Morgana stared at the thread's former place. She looked up, face blank.

"You said the old man is who you will become, and that I killed him. Does that not seal the truth of our destiny? I killed you, and now you will surely kill me. I will fight you of course, and aim to win. But in the end fate determines all things, doesn't it?" she trailed off. Gold filled her eyes. Bolts of energy hissed into life between her fingers. Then, barely above a whisper, she spoke. "You said at the hill that Arthur's name will live on in legend. Fate has made that so. Legend will remember Arthur as the king of kings, and you as the great enchanter. But me, Uther's ward and Arthur's sister? No. I will be remembered as Morgan La Fey. Enemy of Merlin."

"You've gone mad," Merlin mouthed. Tears fell freely from his eyes. He fought back the urge to sob.

And then, Merlin raising the staff, Morgana lifting her hands, their duel began.

With a quick staff twirl Merlin sent her opening attacks spinning into the outer wall. They both took a staff back, marking their distance, and with the altar between them, they began to circle one another.

"_Clousfan!" _purple light streaked straight at the prophets chest. Again he twirled the staff and knocked them aside.

"_Glathin!" _Merlin shouted, snapping his wrist forward. A shield bubble bloomed around Morgana, sealing her inside.

Her mouth moved, though from within the bubble no words could be heard. The shield shattered, it's pieces dissipating into the air. In the blink of an eye Morgana darted sideways, lobbing spell after spell at her opponent as she went. Merlin stepped to the side, avoiding the attack. Still he launched no offensive of his own.

"Fight back! I know you're not weak Merlin! FIGHT BACK!"

She skidded to a halt, and began to wave her arms in great circular motions. Her eyes burned brighter, and the wind began to pick up. Cracks splintered across the ground. Chunks of earth rose up and began to swirl around Morgana in a whirlwind of stone. Fire crackled above her palm, and joined the frenzy. Weaves of magic looped from her fingers, and directed the barrage in Merlin's direction.

_POP!_

Suddenly Merlin appeared to Morgana's side. The projectiles turned in midair, but faster than a blink he was gone again.

_POP!_

_POP!_

_POP!_

_POP!_

"Arghghg!" Morgana shrieked as a heated blast made contact with her leg. Merlin was all over the place. One second he was one place, the next he was another.

Curling her fingers, she brought the swirling whirlwind closer to her body, shielding her from further attack.

More attacks came, seemingly from all sides at once. Blasts after blasts pelted her elemental dome like raindrops. It shook and crumbled in the air. Pain shot across Morgana's body, and she crumpled to a knee.

Merlin stopped, standing in a single place. Yet it still look as though at least a dozen different Merlin's were darting around the courtyard like rampant ghosts. The solid Merlin raised the Pilgrim's staff. Light shone at its tip.

A single tear fell from the warlocks nose.

Just in time Morgana brought the elements to protect her front, as Merlin came crashing into it. Both sets of hands wrapped round the staff, both their energy's focusing on a single point.

The energy exploded upward in a pillar of light and sound. Morgana found herself flung like ragdoll into the sky, and suspended there in a column of wind. Her eyes opened.

Merlin floated above her, eyes ablaze, staff raised high, face filled with sadness.

"I'm sorry," he said, bringing the staff downward.

Morgana slammed downward, landing on her back atop the stone altar.

"_Liarana!" _Merlin screamed. Lightning branched from the sky, and like an arrow from heaven, struck the dark witch in the heart. The last black thread unfurled itself and disappeared.

Merlin lowered himself to the ground. Walking at a snail's pace he made his way to the altar side. A sob wracked his chest, tears soaked his robed front.

A drop of blood dribbled from her open mouth, staining her pale skin.

Letting out another sob, Merlin knelt by her side, pressed his lips to her forehead, and wept.


	27. Alpha and Omega

Two days after the battle of Badon Hill, when the dust had cleared and the majority of the dead had been burned or buried, Arthur, Merlin and Gwen found themselves sitting atop Kilgharrah's scaly back.

Between them laid the Pilgrim's body, wrapped in pure white cloth.

The early morning air was crisp and clean. Scents of thistle intermingled with honeysuckle tickled at the nose, and though the rising sun shone brightly in the east, a haze of sadness draped the day.

The Pilgrim was dead. Merlin...in a way, was dead as well. The feelings brought on by the situation couldn't be readily described.

How was one supposed to mourn a friend who was dead, but was not dead? How could one possibly comprehend the vast emotional baggage that came with the traversing of time, the future relationships that had yet to be formed, memories that had yet to be made?

The speculation alone would be enough to drive lesser man mad.

It was hard enough for Arthur and Gwen. Though not mad, their hearts were still broken.

To witness the Pilgrim's end was to witness the end of Merlin, their closest friend.

But for Merlin the situation bordered on surreal. The withered corpse before him was what he would be at the end of more than a millennia of life.

If only he'd gotten to meet him properly. Oh the questions he would ask...

How did he, if ever, cope with the guilt of Morganna's death?

He'd buried her at the Isle of Blessed beside the altar, but since the life had left her eyes, he saw her everywhere.

Even now, so soon after her death she haunted him.

Would that guilt ever fade away? Or would Merlin be doomed to wander the earth with her ghostly whispers niggling at the back of his mind?

_"Do not blame yourself for the witch, Merlin." _Kilgharrah transmitted telepathically. _"She made her own choices. Just as I said she would." _

_"I could have stopped it," _Merlin sent back. _"I could have."_

The silence continued on. None of them knew what to say. What could they say? Arthur stared at the Pilgrim's body, tears welling to the surface.

Merlin gripped his shoulder, squeezing firmly.

"No man is worth your tears, Arthur."

King Arthur turned at the quote.

"He is...you are."

Silence fell once more.

"I think we must be close," said Gwen a few moments later, pointing off to the right. "You can see the lake from here."

Arthur and Merlin shifted over to where Gwen sat just below Kilgharrah's wing joint, and peered out over the forest.

Indeed. The lake's crystalline surface could be seen between the trees, glittering in the morning sunlight.

"Take us down, Merlin ordered. "Lancelot and Verown should be ready for us. Let's get this done, shall we?"

The others agreed. The sooner the Pilgrim was put to rest, the sooner their grief would be alleviated, and things would return to some semblance of normalcy.

Though, considering the circumstances, normal would never be the same again.

After the battle, Arthur and Merlin had returned to Camelot to rein in the political upheaval that was suddenly ripping across Albion.

With Arthur as High King, change would be coming rapidly. Entirely new infrastructures of government would have to be formed. Noble families who resided outside of Camelot in countries such as Cenred, had already flocked to the palace in great numbers, all clawing for the new ruler's favor.

Meanwhile, Lancelot, Verown and their Oberan had ridden ahead to the Lady's lake to prepare a funeral pyre.

The Pilgrim's funeral would be a proper one, in which Arthur's promise to Freya would be honored. Her lake's serene waters would be the Pilgrim's resting place.

Kilgharrah landed with a wet squelch along the lake's muddy rim. Spreading out his wings, he provides his passengers with a ramp to dry ground.

Waving a hand, Merlin levitated the body down to float at waist level beside him.

Lancelot, Apalala close behind, trotted up to them.

"There you lot are," he greeted. "We wondered if you'd make it today. Thought maybe you'd gotten held up at the castle." He glanced at the body, grimacing. "We're about ready for him. Come on."

Wordlessly they followed him around to the opposite shore where Verown and his wolf waited beside a boat layered with freshly picked flowers.

"Emrys, Artorius," Verown bowed his head slightly. "All the preparations have been made."

A green scrap of fabric adorned his shoulder, a bit of the Weaver's robe. All that remained of her.

In her absence, leadership of the Druid people would fall to her apprentice. He hoped to prove himself worthy of such responsibility.

"Thank you Verown," said Merlin.

Slowly, he lowered the Pilgrim to the soft bed of petals. He looked so peaceful laying there. The pointy hat, which he still wore, jutted out at a crooked angle. Folds of wrinkled skin were tanned a light olive color, giving the elderly warlock the appearance of not a corpse, but of a sleeping angel fallen from heavens.

"You came."

All heads turned.

At the lake's center rippled rings began to form, spreading outward. A woman garbed only in reeds and vines emerged. She turned to face them, smiling brightly.

Freya, lady of the lake. Merlin's first love.

"She's beautiful," Gwen whispered as Merlin waded out to meet her. " And Merlin's in love with her?"

"Yes," Arthur replied quietly.

"I can see why. They look very good together."

"You two would have made good friends," said Arthur, eyeing the couple sadly. "She was a wonderful woman...and I killed her..."

"Not your fault, " said Gwen, twining her fingers with his. "And even if it were, Merlin would forgive you."

"He could have had a future with her though... Whether he blames me or not doesn't matter. I still denied him a future with the one he loves."

"His future can't be that terrible," she said glancing at the boat. "No one with a heart like that could have lived a life of nothing but misery."

"No, I suppose not... I only wish so much of his life werent dedicated to getting me out of trouble."

Gwen smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder in a tender fashion.

"Someone has to, and Merlin's more than happy to protect a friend."

Merlin enveloped Freya in a tight embrace, liftering her up and spinning her round once. Their lips came together for their second kiss, both lovers revelling in the other's pressence. They pulled apart, foreheads resting together.

"I miss you," Merlin breathed.

"And I you," Freya murmurred back. Love shone in her mist colored eyes. Much time had passed since their last meeting, yet their feelings hadn't changed.

"I'm sorry I didn't come to visit...Just things were so hectic with Arthur, and...and you were dead."

"It's alright love, it's alright," Freya soothed. "You couldn't have known my spirit was bound to the lake. The Pilgrim told me you'd be bringing him here. He rememebrs this day you see, from your point of view."

"He's spoken to you?" Merlin asked curiously, pulling back, brows arching. "What has he told you? About the future, I mean. I only ever met him once, in a vision, and we were sort of in a hurry. Anything...interesting happening soon?"

"Yes," Freya replied, giggling lightly. "He contacted me when pulling back the spirit's of Arthur's mother and Gwen's father. And yes, you and I are going to share something very special soon." She put a finger to his lips. "Don't ask. You're going to find out soon enough. Another vision. A knowing."

The pair broke apart and strode hand in hand to the waters edge.

"Thank you all for coming," the Lady said to the others, looking over each of them. "It's wonderful to meet Merlin's friends in person. He'd..." she looked to the Pilgrim, "he'd want you to be here. All of you.

"Tis an honor," said Kilgharrah. The Great dragon bowed his head mournfully. "Desoite all the frustrations he's caused me, Merlin, both of them, came into their destinies beautifully. Perhaps my councel was not in vain after all." Another giggle left Freya's mouth.

"Perhaps not," she agrred.

"Well," said Arthur, stepping forward into the water. "Are we ready?"

"Yes," said Freya. "Lets begin."

Together Arthur and Merlin took hold of the boat. With a just a little help from magic, they shove it through the water, moving at a snail's pace towards the lake's center.

Raising a hand Merlin set the boat ablaze. The flower petals and the cloth burned away in moments, dissolving the boat into a blackened heap of floating debris. Then came a sickening crack, sounding the boats descent below the water.

A light, at first nothing more than a spark, flickered into life at the lake bottom.

A gate to Avalon rested there, and now it was opening.

Light flashed again, temporarily blinding the onlookers. When it cleared, a lone figure draped in white robes walked across the water towards the shore.

Merlin gaped.

The figure, apart from the robes and a head of whitish gray hair, was his exact duplicate, big ears and all. His body was composed of semisolid shadows, shimmering as all spirits do. The Pilgrim smiled. Happiness radiated from him like sunlight, warm and bright.

"I always knew this day was coming you know. Always. My memory is a bit hazy, but I remember. Oh God do I remember," he drifted off, staring wistfully into the distance, lost in memories of the future.

"What...what happens now?" Merlin asked. "Are you going to stay here, with Freya, as a lake spirit?"

"Goodness no," he glanced at Freya, smiling. "My time in this world has long since passed, both as a man and as a spirit. No, it's time I move on. But first, if I remember correctly, this is where I say some vague things about the future that won't make sense until many years from now. Don't give me that look, I invented that look. You Merlin, you are fated to guide many heroes. The boy who lived, the sun god from smallville, Gotham's dark knight, but none shall be greater than he who stands next to you. Look into the crystal of Neatid, and see what will be."

As Merlin fumbled with the pouch at his belt, the Pilgrim turned to the others.

"Gwen my dear friend. You will make a magnificent queen. The people will look to you for guidance, and you will provide it. Know now, that even when the day arrives that you are left alone in this world, that the one's you love are waiting with open arms at the other side. Lancelot, you brave, brave man. One day you will seek the holiest of chalices, and find glory along with you mount. Verown, the ever faithful, the Druids could not be left in better hands. I know this, for i have lived it. Fear not my friend, the Weaver is so proud of you."

The crystal warmed in Merlin's hands. A flame flickered between his fingers, shining it's light through the transparent rock.

Images, knowing, filled his mind.

A basinet floating on a lake. A young woman, beautiful, powerful, with his eyes.

A man with dark curled hair topped with a crown, with Arthur's face, and his mothers eyes.

Two men circling one another. One crowned in stars, the other robed in shadow.

Himself, standing at Arthur's tomb, enscrbing the immortal words.

_Here lies Arthur, formerly king, and king to be._

The visions faded away, and Merlin snapped back to reality.

"I'm going to have a daughter?" he asked, voice squeaking a bit.

"Indeed," the Pilgrim confirmed. "And she will wed Thomas, Arthur's heir." he stepped closer, clasping his younger self by the shoulders, meeting his eyes.

"Know this, Merlin. Destiny is both the will of God and the will of man. Morgana proved as such. Though God lays it out before us, it is we that choose the paths that define whow we are. This will be hard to accept, but you are going to outlive everyone you've ever loved. That is the pirce of near immortality. But," he continued at seeing the horror struck look on Merlin's face.

"That in the end, you will be there to greet them at Avalon's gates. You will see them again, and along the way you will meet many other friends. Grief does not last forever my boy. Certainly not for sixteen hundred years. Morgana...Morgana will find her way to redemption, given time. Her spirit lingers on this earth.

Though her mind was driven mad by fear, her soul is not yet so tainted. When it comes time for Arthur to enter Avalon, she will be one of four who will guide him there. And, should you ever question God's will, fate, the goodness is man, as I know you will remember this. How do I know God exists, and that he plays a role in this world greater than man can ever truly understand?" he pointed to Arthur.

"Because he sends us people like Arthur. Heroes who will define what it means to be good and true. You have many more questions, but now is the time I must leave you. So that you know, Mordred has fled with Alvarr to lands far away. He will return, never forgetting, never forgiving, and the Wicked day of Destiny will come. But in the end, Mordred loses. Because even when Camelot crumbles to dust. Arthur's name shall be on men's lips. Tales of his valor and courage will live on, and he will be made immortal by time."

The Pilgrim turned, paced back towards the lake's center, looking back over his shoulder as he went. With each step he took, ripples echoed across the water, though the surface did not break.

"The Golden age is upon you, my friends. Live well, until we meet again again."

"Wait!" Arthur called, finally managing to get a word in past the old magician's speech. "Where are you going, what you will you do? You cant't just leave us. Not now!"

"I am leaving you in more than capable hands," he called back, his voice resounding over the waters like music, like the notes of harp song. "Where am I going? To the island of kings in the sky, the island of glass spoken of only in legend. And what am I doing there? What I have always done of course. Make way for the return of the king. For to me there will only ever be _one _king. Now, and always."

A pillar of light shot up from the lake bottom, engulfing the Pilgrim in it's glorious luster. After so many years of life, of live, and of countless adventures, the old man legend would remeber as Merlin, the great enchanter, finally found rest. Until, that is, it came time for the kings return.

Merlin stared at the fading light below the water. He looked to Arthur, who'd come to his side, clapping him on the back in a brotherly fashion.

"Well Merlin," said Arthur. "Now that we've gotten all this insane, time travling, magicy stuff of yours done with, perhaps we can get back home? Court enchanter or not you've still got a lot to do. Polish Excalibur, clean my room..." Merlin cut him off, and the two friends embraced.

Merlin smiled. Yes, the Golden age was defininetly upon them. No matter what the future brought, whether it be agony in a shallow grave or glory in far off lands, he would stand at Arthur's side. Where he was always meant to be.

**Well that's the end guys. I may do a spin off one shot, that fills in gaps in time but otherwise I'm done. Hope you guys enjoyed it. I enjoyed wrting it, buh-bye!**


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